Captive Hearts
by Nana-41175
Summary: A Medieval AU Johnlock romance. John Watson is a captive Highlander tasked to heal the Gaaldinian Prince from a strange malady. In return for his pains, John is forced into the service of the Prince, known only as Monseigneur. Rated M. Chapter 30 up! Please read and review!
1. Prologue

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Prologue**

* * *

Hello! Welcome to another AU fic! I hope you enjoy this story, and reviews are welcome as always. More author's notes at the end of the chapter.

* * *

Far above the earth the hawk flew.

Below her and spread out as far as her eyes could see, the green plains and cultivated fields of Gaaldine in bright hues of yellows and oranges looked every bit like picturesque little squares sewn into a gigantic quilt. Here and there arose white wisps of smoke from fires lit by farmers, clearing the fields for the next wave of crops to be planted. A great flock of sheep was nothing but white moving dots from her lofty vantage point.

If she cared to know at all, to her south lay the deep blue sea, and a short way beyond it, the warmer shores of Gondal. To her north lay Angria- the Highlands- that vast stretch of land where winter reigned nearly all year round in some of its distant mountains. A land of still, cold lakes, treacherous marshes and dark, whispering woods— ancient, impenetrable. A land haunted by centuries of war and strife, and her own special brand of ghosts.

Yet here in Gaaldine, it was early spring, with all its attendant sights and smells of fresh, growing things. Soon the nourishing rains would end and summer would settle down for a brief spell before autumn moved in, followed by white winter. A kaleidoscope of seasons.

The hawk was majestically impervious to it all. She was a creature who lived very much in the here and now, with hardly a care in the world. Wingtips fully spread and gliding silently with the wind, she made an impressive view of appearing to be suspended in mid-air. From her height, it was easy to forget all things earthly and material. Here in the vast nothingness of the heavens, nothing counted more than the liberty that belonged uniquely to her kind.

But alas, even a winged being such as herself could not stay in the heavens indefinitely. After she had had her fill of the air and her time in the sun, she headed back from where she started off, her sense of direction unerring. She passed the peaceful, carefully tended fields and the wild grasslands, heading further north where the air was much cooler, the clouds thicker and pressed lower to the earth.

Just at the point where Gaaldine ended and Angria began, she made her descent, spurred on by a strange, high whistle— made by a man.

Her master.

Down, down she glided, the sights of a noisy, sprawling human encampment fully coming into view at last. A military camp, no less.

Here it was harder to dismiss earthly affairs and think that everything was fine. A swarming mass of people and horses in varying amounts of armor hardly ever meant that things were all right. It was much harder here to mistake the signs of seething tension barely restrained and violence about to be unleashed— it was something that humans specialized in creating, apparently.

War was looming.

But war was the affair of men, not hawks.

She swung down and swept low over the heads of these creatures, so full of mayhem and noise, and flew steadily past them all until she came to land on her rightful perch— an outstretched, well-muscled arm and a slender hand, encased entirely in black leather.

"Welcome back, Azrail," murmured her owner in a deep voice.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: (sorry, going to be quite long)

As much as I am interested in reading historical biographies, the notion of doing serious, extensive and accurate research into the Middle Ages quite overwhelmed me, I'm sorry to say. There is so much interesting material to be found in this fascinating period in English history, and I will try to incorporate them into the story as much as possible, but historical accuracy (or accuracy of any kind, for that matter) may have to take a back seat.

Thus, for this AU, I have decided to substitute the names of real places and events with fictional ones (e.g. Angria for Scotland, Gaaldine for England, Gondal for France. However, Gondalians and the Gaaldinian royal family will retain the use of French, as I cannot invent a new language for them. Also, as Angela Carter once said, French is "the only language in which you can purr"). Even these names are lifted from another source: **Angria, Gaaldine** and **Gondal** were places in the imaginary worlds of the **Bronte children**: Charlotte, Branwell, Emily and Anne.

The story will be a medieval romance, both in its traditional and modern sense, although there will be jibes occasionally aimed at the genre itself (hence the pokey title and plot device); especially its more modern incarnation, which is a source of great entertainment, amusement and irritation to me, after years and years of reading specimens of it in various guises. Hehehe. Ultimately though, this is my tribute to it for being the versatile, colorful and exciting genre that it really is.

Finally, the phrase "Welcome back, Azrail" is from a favorite 1990s anime, **The Heroic Legend of Arslan**. Such a shame that it was discontinued halfway through its run and it never reached a conclusion. **Azrael (Azrail)** is the name of the Archangel of Death. More to come regarding her mysterious owner and the man he's going to come across in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 1

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 1**

* * *

(June 30, 2013) Listen to the first scenes of this chapter, read by aWICKEDgiraffe, at archiveofourown works /863150

Thank you so much, my dear!

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

It was raining when John first met him.

It was not yet raining hard, just a drizzle— fine needles of rain slanting down occasionally from the dark grey sky above to cut across John's cheek and touch upon his eyelashes, forming droplets that bounced off the windswept hair on his bare head as he ran for his life.

His situation was dire.

Behind him, he could hear his adversary closing in fast. How could he not, when he was astride a horse while John had only his two legs to carry him and the light rain making the grass beneath his feet a slippery mass of sod?

The devil on horseback, out hunting for his favorite kind of quarry: a lost soul.

Because the plain and simple fact was: John should not be here.

Hunger had driven him, together with the two men who formed their small party, into the woods at the very edge of Angria to forage for food and before they had known it, they were lost. They had continued to be lost in those dark, thick woods for well almost three days before they emerged, blinking, into the grey, open light.

Into foreign country.

And an ambush.

From their vantage point on top of the gently sloping hill where the forest had disgorged them, they had spied a tiny village farther down below—a tiny cluster of cottages, desolate looking, with no smoke rising from the stumped chimneys. They did not know where they were, but they had agreed it would be best to take shelter before the rains broke fully on top of their heads. Yet before they could act on their agreement, an arrow had come whizzing through the air and sliced at young Alec's shoulder.

As far as John could ascertain there were three: a man with grey hair and a dark woman on foot, with another man on horseback, dressed completely in black. Appearing as if from nowhere and charging quickly toward them.

John had not waited for another arrow to find its mark. "Run!" he had shouted, shoving Alec and his other companion to scatter to different directions even as he took another one. He had dropped his heavy bag, laden with things from the forest, and had not looked back.

Even so, he knew by the thundering sound of hooves behind him who among the three was after him.

That man in black, astride that demon of a horse as dark as its master.

His own breathing loud in his ears, John finally risked a glance back and saw that the beast was but a few paces away from him now. He could feel its heavy breath misting down his back, see its wicked head and frothing mouth as it drew up several feet away and alongside him.

At the last instant, John swerved away, but he was not fast enough to dodge the lance thrown at his legs to trip him up. He stumbled and fell, his momentum sending him rolling for a few paces before he was up again and running.

But nowhere to run. The rider on the dark horse rounded on him, cutting off all avenues of escape.

The drizzle was heavier now, but not enough to obscure his view of his opponent.

For the first time, with the light rain all around them, John took stock of him in full: the dark curls made wild by the wind on that unprotected head, his body suit made entirely of black armor, partly obscured by a rich, flowing cape, also black. Most daunting: John could not make out his features at all. A black mask hid his visage from the nose up, leaving the lower part of his face free. And John could see that he was smiling.

A most sinister figure. One of those demon-villains featured in countless, old wives' tales to frighten the young. John could feel the hairs on his nape begin to stand on end.

"Surrender," he heard the stranger say in a deep, drawling voice. "Or die."

Gaaldinian. John had no doubt about it, to judge from the accent. So they had, indeed, left the borders of Angria behind. He would have to fight then. That was fine. More than fine. John was a soldier. Fighting was what he did.

John drew his battered sword from his hip holster and held it before him. "Let me go," he said. "Let my comrades go. This should not be made a deeper mistake than it is already."

The smile became a laugh, deep and throaty. "So you acknowledge this as a mistake on your part."

John bit down on his lip, refused to let fear or rage get the better of him. "We were lost in the woods. We had no way of knowing—"

"Excuses, one too many. Let me not hear another one from your mouth," declared the man on the horse. "It bores me, and does not affect the outcome in any way."

"All right," muttered John. "If it's a fight you're itching for. What's the matter though? Are you not sure that you can win over me without the aid of your steed?"

That seemed to check the other man. John was glad.

"Insolent, are we?" the man finally said, his voice cold.

But he dismounted.

John suppressed the wild hope that sprung from the idea that he might be getting a fair fight after all, and merely tightened his grip on his sword. He eyed the figure warily as it slowly advanced toward him, unsheathing his own sword from a jeweled scabbard.

All around them, splinters of silvery rain continued to fall softly.

His sword, John could tell, was very finely made. That much was obvious. The blade looked sharp, viciously so. Definitely not the sort of weapon that John was carrying— scraps of metal partially melted and molded and hastily put together again. It was not much, but it had seen John through his battles so far. John could only pray that it would carry him through this one, because the stranger blocking his path had just said that he wasn't letting him go.

"We don't need to do this," repeated John, buying for time, though what he could possibly do with more time he did not know.

"Drop your weapon then," replied the deep voice coldly.

John considered his choices, and decided he didn't like the notion of being held captive by the enemy. "No," he said stubbornly. "Just let me go. We're not at war yet."

His adversary regarded him with the stillness of a serpent. Then, "You have strong nerves to propose a solution that is not available to you. Your only options are to surrender or fight. I strongly suggest the former if you value your life."

Almost without their knowing it, they had begun to circle one another.

"You are a soldier and a healer, clearly from the Highlands," continued the figure in black. "What may we deduce from your setting foot here, along the borders of Gaaldine, at this most inopportune time?"

If John was surprised at the man's words, he refused to act on it. "Enough talk then!" he cried as he finally made his move, swinging his sword in an arc. "Let's fight, if we must!"

The stranger was quick to intercept his blow, their swords clashing, meeting. There was a second or so when both men were caught in a strange, precarious balance, neither of them capable of advancing against the other. A second or so when their faces were merely inches apart, breathing each other's breath which turned to fine mist in the cold rain. John's blue eyes were dark and unrelenting as he stared into the wide, pale ones of his adversary. The very air around them seemed to shiver with something invisible, like a current.

Impossibly light, the color of those eyes. The mask obscuring the stranger's face could not hide the naked astonishment in them.

A mere second, nothing more. But John had been through enough skirmishes to have a feeling of this fight's possible outcome: against all odds, he might just win this fight after all.

The man before him was good- there was no doubt that he had classical training behind him. But the sword was clearly not his weapon of choice. John could tell the very moment their swords met, as if swords could speak to him and tell him something of their bearers.

He withdrew his sword roughly, suddenly. He heard the shrill screech of metal against metal as they disengaged, and he brought his blade forward on his opponent with a short, savage swing. He was not going to give the man any chance to launch an offensive.

The man caught his sword again against his, but his hold over his own sword was weakening under the force of John's onslaught. The man must have sensed it, for he suddenly broke off their stalemate with a rough shove of his sword against John's.

"Monseigneur!" A man's voice sounded from a few dozen yards away.

"Get back, Lestrade!" John heard the man in black snarl. "This one's mine."

_Oh no, I'm not_, thought John grimly. _It's the other way around, mate._

He lunged at the man, parried his sword, sidestepped and thrust back, bringing his weight to bear on his sword— a complex, little dance made more intimate because of all that was at stake. Surely they had not been fighting for more than five minutes, and yet it felt like an eternity to John. In that tiny pocket of time when everything else stood still, they were giving it everything they got. Evenly matched in all aspects, until suddenly they were not. John saw it, that almost imperceptible move that marked an error in his opponent's stance— his window of opportunity. With one final swing with all his strength behind it, he pounded on the adversary's weapon with his own. And watched as the enemy's beautiful sword flew out of the man's hands, did a brief somersault in the rain before landing with a dull thud on the grassy mud.

A sword, no matter how finely made, was but a sword, John would have wanted to say, but he was not to have the chance. Before he could even bring his sword back in front of him and consider what he would do to the man before him, he heard a faint hiss in the air. A soft _whoosh._

Just the sound, foreign and incomprehensible, and John would not know what hit him as something struck him from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the soft mud at his feet.

The heavens high above him continued to weep unnoticed.

* * *

He might have been out a couple of hours. Or perhaps it was an entire day. It was hard to tell. When he slowly came to, everything in his body hurt like hell, but not as much as the throbbing at the back of his head. Somebody close by was moaning- a low, monotonous bleat. With difficulty, John shut his dry mouth and realized that he was the one making the dreadful sound.

Long moments of disorientation. A hand on his shoulder, rousing him. Somebody was talking above his head in agitated tones. For a moment, John could not make sense of the words he was hearing. When he finally opened his eyes, he realized that it was Alec, looming over him.

So young Alec was all right. Their other companion was nowhere in sight.

John licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue, and croaked, "Where-?"

John wasn't really sure what he was looking at, high above him. A tapered, canvas roof with the harsh sound of incessant rain beating upon it from outside. A tent. They were inside a tent.

Alec was shaking his head miserably and was about to open his mouth when a voice said behind him, "So you're all up now, are you?"

The words were spoken in a gruff drawl.

It only took a second for John to piece together everything. He stared past Alec's wounded shoulder at the man who had entered. Yes, he had seen him. He was that man with the grey hair in the field, heavy of build, square of jaw.

Lestrade. The man in black had called him Lestrade.

The man was now shaking his head ruefully. "Bleeding Christ," he muttered, staring at the two prisoners before him. "As if I don't have enough on my hands right now."

"Water," whispered John.

Lestrade nodded at Alec. "Go ahead. Give him some," he said. "Let it not be said that we are depriving you of any basic necessity."

John drank thirstily from a cup offered by Alec.

"I suppose you gents might want to start answering some questions, while you're our… guests?" remarked Lestrade, his tone almost congenial.

John was not paying attention to him. "You're still bleeding," he said to Alec, eyeing the clumsily tied rag around his shoulder that served as a bandage.

"It's just a flesh wound," whispered Alec. Fear was etched in his wide blue eyes like a shadow.

John raised his eyes to the newcomer. "He's injured," he pointed out. "Can't we have somebody to treat him?"

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "Our doctor will be along shortly," he said, his tone indifferent, "after he's done with his duties around the camp. May take a while though. I'd be more worried over that bump you sustained at the back of your head than his little wound there. At least Sally did not end up killing you outright."

The man's last words did not mean anything to John. "Our bag," he said suddenly. "We have medicine. From the forest. I can...did you get our bag, at least?"

Lestrade raised his brows, stepped out nonchalantly to speak to someone outside the tent. "Yes, we've got your bag," he said, moving back.

"Might I at least treat my comrade, if you are unwilling?" said John, slowly sitting up. He fought to keep from wincing as he rubbed over the sore area behind his head with an unsteady hand.

God, what had taken him down? It felt like it had taken away half his head as well.

"Oh?" said Lestrade, eyebrows raised. "You're a doctor, are you?"

John said nothing, merely regarded the man warily.

A movement outside the tent. Lestrade moved to intercept the heavy bag as it was handed in.

_Oh no_, thought John. He could only hope the contents had been spared from the rain. It had taken him so much time to forage for all of this, and they would be ruined if they got wet.

Lestrade frowned as John opened the bag and slowly scooped out the contents: sheaves of tree fungi, dry bark, dark moss, strange leaves. A cluster of small white flowers, rapidly wilting. Granules of dirt, along everything. John sighed in relief. They were pretty much intact.

"It all looks like forest debris," noted Lestrade, eyeing the things in John's tender hands the way he would a basket of worms.

_Yes, what would a philistine know about forest medicine?_ John thought grimly, fighting the urge to snort. Ignoring the man, he began sorting out the necessary ingredients he would need to treat Alec's injury.

Carefully, he unwrapped the bloody bandage from Alec's shoulder. Examining the wound, he said softly, "Yeah, not so bad, but rather deep. We wouldn't want it to start festering."

He ground bits of tree bark with his fingers until they crumbled. He mixed them together with a pinch of dark moss in the cup of water until it turned into a soggy, dark brown paste. This he rubbed on Alec's wound with a practiced hand. Lestrade watched the proceedings in bemused silence.

"Where did you learn all of this?" he asked after John was finished, sounding interested despite himself.

John did not acknowledge his question and, determined to make a complete nuisance of himself, announced instead, "We're hungry. Are we not to have anything to eat?"

He watched in grim satisfaction as their captor's features twisted in annoyance, but before he could say anything, somebody from outside interrupted yet again. "My lord," John heard somebody murmur.

A brief conversation. Finally Lestrade turned back to them. "We're not done yet," he said as he swept aside a fold of the canvas tent and let himself out.

* * *

Hours went by and the man did not return. In his absence they had been given a thin, tasteless porridge that served as breakfast. Lestrade's continued absence gave John some time to doze and gather his strength back, and to ply Alec with questions.

It was all a mess, their plan. Whatever it was, to begin with. Yet they knew that if they chose to stay longer in their fragmenting unit of a fighting corps, they would starve. Made up of a motley crew of men from several villages up further north, they had come to the southern borders of Angria only to find that war may or may not happen with Gaaldine, depending on certain negotiations still being done on both sides. Worse, the lord they were serving was a young, inexperienced whelp who had recently replaced his elderly father. This was his first campaign, and the first disaster to await him was the realization that he was unprepared to feed and shelter the multitude of men under him who had heard of a war and rushed to take full advantage of its possibilities. Nor did the young lord have enough sway over these particular kinds of men. Before the first few days were out, his camp had dissolved into a series of infighting and some of the soldiers had decided to leave in disgust.

One of them was John.

He had not really known what to do next- perhaps join another regiment- but had finally decided he had better things to occupy his time than wait for war to break out. He had not been paid nor fed properly while he was still in camp, so he would have to find his own food. That had been the reason why he, being newly masterless, had gone into the forest with Alec close at his heels. And then they had gotten lost.

And now this.

Their other companion, a man they only knew as Stephen, had managed to elude their captors and made it back to the forest. God only knew how he was going to make it through that wilderness alone.

From what Alec had told him, John was able to make out what happened after he was struck unconscious.

Alec had seen the weapon that brought him down, but he could not really tell what it was. A slim, triangular object that the dark-skinned woman had wielded. It flew in the air in an arc and could be maneuvered to return to the woman's clutches. Alec had never seen anything like it. The woman who had thrown it was skilled enough so that the thing had only grazed at John's head. Clearly not an easy thing to do. If it had struck him at full impact, he had no doubt that he would have been killed.

After he was down, he had to be half-carried, half-dragged by Alec to the enemy's camp. It was a good hour away from the forest edge, and the leader on the horse— already furious at the woman for her intervention with the strange weapon— had finally lost all patience at their snail's pace in the heavy rain, and barked, "Oh for God's sake, just sling him over here and let's get on with it!"

So John had ridden the rest of the way to camp slung over the man's horse.

"Why didn't they just leave me behind," wondered John, casting a glance at the canvas flap.

The man Lestrade had not returned. What would happen next if he did return? What did they plan to do to him and Alec? Would he be seeing that man in black again? Clearly he was somebody of high rank. Lestrade's superior officer, no doubt. Strange that he would go around with a mask on his face. What did it all mean?

So many questions.

Or they could just barge out of here, said John to himself as his thoughts turned to a different avenue in his mind. He didn't know how many men were outside, didn't know if they had any chance in hell in overpowering the murmuring guards, but he had heard enough stories about Gaaldinians— Gaaldinian men, especially— to consider escape as a necessity.

"What?" Alec's query brought John back to the present. "The enemy leaving you behind to risk your escaping?"

"Not if the cold got to me first," John remarked. "Which it would have."

It was early spring, but the nights were still cold. Leave an unconscious man out in the open long enough and he would not regain consciousness.

This wasn't making sense, any of it.

According to Alec's calculations, that was all from last night. Surely, they were now into early morning, but there was no way of telling the time. For now they were safely away from the rain and that was all that mattered. Their clothes and boots were still damp, but they were intact, and doing a good job in keeping the cold at bay. There was no solution for chilled hands or heads, other than rub the former together and breathe into their cupped hands to borrow some warmth for their faces. Their enemies would have to wait before they got any answers from them.

"You know, he was here," said Alec during a lull in their conversation.

"Who?"

"That masked man," said Alec. "He came while you were still out. He looked over your head and tried to rouse you, but he couldn't so he left."

John blinked, surprised. "He...he was here?" he asked. "Wait, what-?"

Just then, the heavy canvas fold lifted as it was held back and the grey-haired man known as Lestrade entered the enclosure once again. His face was set in stern lines, his jaw set. He looked winded, as though he had been running.

"You." He gestured at John. "Come with me."

He held the tent flap open for John to pass through. "Guard the boy," he heard Lestrade give instructions to the guards outside.

In the heavy downpour, John could make out the shapes of men going to and fro, and realized that escape was virtually impossible. They were in the middle of a garrison armed to the teeth. But right now, there was no time to make further observations as he was herded through the maze of tents, past the men and beasts going about their business, sidestepping pools of mud and rain on the uneven ground, until he and Lestrade stopped outside a larger, opulent-looking tent.

The heavy, cloying smell of incense wafted out to greet them as soon as the older man lifted the flap of the tent and ushered John in. He fought not to gag.

"Anderson!" cried Lestrade, coughing. "What the hell are you doing!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" snapped his comrade, a tall man with narrow, rodent-like features as he stood over a bed, holding a quivering white wrist in his hand. Beside him stood a boy no older than sixteen or seventeen, looking quite panicked. "I'm trying everything I can think of to help him!"

It was then that John saw the bed's occupant.

_No_, he thought.

"Well, he's not going to like it if he realizes you've been near him!" interjected Lestrade angrily.

"I don't think he will realize that just now," muttered Anderson.

"Oh, Jesus _bloody_ Christ!" Lestrade exclaimed as he took a closer look at the man on the bed.

It was him. The man in black. But what a difference from yesterday: the tall, haughty form who had barred John's way with his horse and his imposing demeanor now lay prostrate in bed, sweating into his bed linens, tossing restlessly in a very high fever.

Lestrade turned to John.

"You can heal people," said Lestrade urgently. "Start healing him, then!"

John gazed down at the writhing form in front of him, in the throes of fever and delirium, and he could not help but remember the vivid details of their fight just yesterday. He had bested this man in hand-to-hand combat, yet he was now this man's captive. His hostage.

This man before him who was no less than his enemy.

John raised hooded eyes to glare at Lestrade. "Give me one good reason why I should help you save him," he said.

Lestrade swallowed. "If he dies," he said, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. "If Monseigneur dies, we are all. Dead."

* * *

Author's notes: Monseigneur is fashioned after **Edward of Woodstock**, Prince of Wales, more popularly known as the **Black Prince**.


	3. Chapter 2

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

"_If Monseigneur dies, then we are all. Dead."_

John stared at Lestrade blankly, as if still waiting for him to deliver the punch line of a joke. He might as well have asked, "So?"

Lestrade raised a hand and swept it over his face in exasperation. "Do you understand what I just said?" he ground out.

"As your captive, I may be as good as dead," said John, clarifying the issue. "How will this affect me any differently?"

In short, _What's in it for me?_

"Obviously, you don't get to die if you save this man's life," said Lestrade tersely. "On the other hand, if he dies now, I will see to it that I cut your head off personally before they lop off mine."

Time to put the cards on the table, at last.

"My freedom, in exchange for treating him?" John asked carefully, nodding at the man lying on the bed.

"All right," replied Lestrade, readily.

"My companion—"

"Yes, he may go, too."

A pause, as if John were thinking of saying something else. Something more. Lestrade waited, shoulders tense. But John finally nodded.

_All right then. _

John looked down again at his new patient, licking his lips.

God, even now, the man was still masked. _What the bleeding hell._

He glanced up at Lestrade, but the man was ahead of him: "The mask stays. For your own sake, you don't get to see his face. Ever. Is that understood?"

There was something in Lestrade's voice that brooked no opposition. John nodded before he brought his attention back on his patient and gingerly moved his hand forward, but before he could lay it on the man before him, there was Lestrade again.

"Oh no, you're not touching him with paws like that," he declared, eyeing John's rough hands and the dirt lining the creases of his palms, his fingernails.

He turned to the panicky youth standing beside the bed. "Billy, fetch us some water for the doctor to wash his hands," said Lestrade.

"Look, I can handle this," snapped Anderson. "You don't need to drag in some mountain man—"

"You've been 'treating' him for hours with your holy oils and whatnot, and all I've seen is Monseigneur lapsing into delirium," growled Lestrade. "Now move away from there and let this man through."

John was soon presented with a bowl of water and a cake of fragrant soap.

John regarded the soap with raised eyebrows but said nothing as he started to wash his hands in the warm water. He watched as the suds turned brown and his hands slowly turned white.

"Tell me what happened before he fell ill," he finally said.

Lestrade thought for a moment, then said, "Nothing extraordinary. You saw him yesterday, he was well then, and a little rain has never done Monseigneur any harm before. This started three, four hours ago when he complained of being dizzy. It just came on so fast, the fever. Chills. The sweats. I came to fetch you as soon as he started babbling."

After John was done washing up, he raised his clean hands in the air to show to Lestrade, as if sarcastically inviting his sanction. Brows lowered, Lestrade merely bit his lip and nodded, refusing to be baited into another argument.

John laid a light hand on the man's forehead and another on his neck.

He was burning up, no doubt about it. John's hand moved slowly to feel the pulse at the base of his neck. A purse of John's lips as he registered the frenzied pace of his patient's heart.

"It's an imbalance of the humours, is what it is," said Anderson in a low mutter. "The black bile and the—"

"Just shut it, why don't you?" snapped Lestrade in irritation, his eyes never leaving John's hands as they carefully examined Monseigneur's neck, doing small massaging motions, checking under his jaw, behind his ears.

"No swellings," murmured John abstractedly.

"What? What does that mean?" asked Lestrade.

John merely shook his head, deep in thought. Gently, he peeled Monseigneur's eyelids open and peered into his pale eyes.

He frowned. _Dilated pupils. _

Things were not adding up.

"Or it's the plague," continued Anderson, heedless of Lestrade's admonition to stay quiet. "That's what he gets for gallivanting off, insisting on visiting some God-forsaken village that's been—"

Lestrade's next outburst finally startled John enough to lift his head: "Allez-vous en! _Allez!"_

John was sure he did not understand a word Lestrade had just shouted, although he got the general idea what he meant. The tent was suddenly a great deal quieter after Anderson had slunk away.

"You can take that incense burner out as well," said John, nodding at the small, fuming pot a few feet away. The page, Billy, scurried quickly to do his bidding.

"Well?" Lestrade asked, anxiously, watching as John carefully pried Monseigneur's mouth open, took a sniff and looked in. Strange: his mouth was very dry.

John remained silent, absorbed in his task. His hands moved down to part the man's damp linen shirt, exposing his chest. He stared for a moment at the medallion slung around his neck, rising and falling rapidly with each breath the man took.

"Holy medal," explained Lestrade. "It's mine. I thought—"

"You can have it back," said John shortly. "I can promise you it's not going to be of much help."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment before he stretched out a hand to remove the medal from his master's neck.

John lowered his head to press an ear over the man's heaving chest. _Lung sounds clear._

What was this, then?

A moment later, and Lestrade was asking the same thing: "What is it? Wait, what are you doing?"

"I need to check every part of him, to be sure I don't miss anything," said John, dragging the patient's shirt away and turning him over. "Help me."

John's hand travelled swiftly over the man's well-muscled back and swept over his long arms as Billy and Lestrade helped to secure the writhing man down.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a small cut on the man's right upper arm, already healing.

"Monseigneur has had it for a few days, before we arrived here," said Billy nervously, glancing at Lestrade. "He thought perhaps it was from that jousting match held for His Majesty."

Lestrade turned to John. "I don't think it's related to this, do you?" he said.

"Maybe not," murmured John. "I will need to see the rest of him."

"Is this really necessary?" complained Lestrade as he watched John undoing Monseigneur's breeches.

John raised his head to look mildly at Lestrade. "Do you want me to do a thorough job or not? It's all up to you."

Lestrade blew out an exasperated breath, but grudgingly gave way. He watched as John methodically examined Monseigneur from the waist down, fingers kneading gently on the crux of his hips, feeling for something that was not there. Satisfied, his gaze swept clinically past Monseigneur's unmentionable parts, going down to legs thick with saddle muscle and farther down to his feet before going back up.

Nothing.

"Well?"

John straightened up, frowning, and offered no explanation. "Let's get the fever out of the way first. I will need my bag."

Nodding at Billy, John continued, "Now would be a good time to change him out of these clothes. Change him into something that we can easily take off him."

"Anderson said we may have to bleed him, if the fever doesn't go down soon," said Lestrade heavily as they watched Billy pull a new nightgown down over Monseigneur. "Do we really need to?"

"Let's hope not," answered John.

While they were waiting for the medicine bag, John asked, "Anderson. That man you sent out- that's your camp doctor?"

Lestrade heaved a weary sigh and nodded.

"I don't want him anywhere near my comrade's wounded shoulder," said John.

Lestrade nodded, not quite looking at him. "What's your name, by the way?" he said. "I didn't catch it."

"John."

"Just John?"

"Watson."

Lestrade nodded. "Lestrade," he said.

"I know," said John.

Lestrade appeared reluctant to part with his first name, and John did not press him. He was not really interested in knowing anything about the man, anyway.

John's bag finally arrived. He removed some of the ingredients and said, "I'll need a pot, and some clean water. These will have to be boiled."

He was taken outside to another tent by Billy to cook his medicine.

"Please, sir," said the young page as he watched John prepare the concoction. "Will this really cure Monseigneur?"

John glanced at Billy and saw the concern in his eyes to be genuine. "We will see," he said as he cut his ingredients and tossed them into the boiling water. "We will need a sieve to strain the fluid."

Half an hour later and after much pounding and squeezing, a huge handful of the roots and leaves from the forest finally yielded enough medicine to fill one small cup.

Lestrade stared at the amount when John came back with it and said, "That's it?"

"We're lucky even to have this much," said John. "He'll need to drink at least half of it for tonight."

"All right," said Lestrade. "But you first."

John's lips twitched.

Fair enough. Without another word, he took a sip of the bitter concoction.

Lestrade finally nodded, satisfied that there was no foul play in the brew. He stared for a moment as John offered the cup to him.

"Not for you," said John. "For him."

Finally understanding, Lestrade turned to Billy and said, "Prop Monseigneur up. I'll bring the cup to his mouth."

It was no easy task. The man thrashed in Lestrade and Billy's combined hold and the precious medicine dribbled down his chin as Lestrade pushed the cup to his lips.

"Careful! You're wasting it!" cried John at last.

Lestrade and Billy finally desisted in their efforts. John took the cup back, looked down at the contents and scowled: almost half of it was already gone.

"You'll have to administer it by mouth," he told Lestrade.

"I beg your pardon?" Lestrade was suddenly all blank incomprehension.

John looked at Billy, who involuntarily took a step back.

_Oh for the love of...!_

John took a mouthful of the medicine and stepped up to the bed. Firmly, he took Monseigneur's head in one hand and opened the man's mouth by pressing his fingers into his cheeks. Quickly, John pressed his mouth down on his, feeling the feverish heat in that impossibly dry orifice as he sealed it securely with his own. He did not let go even as the man tried to move his head away, his hands reaching up to claw and clutch weakly at John's hands. Lestrade and Billy held him down even as John forced the medicine into his mouth and down his throat.

Lestrade watched as his master's throat worked, heard him swallow that first drought, and he sagged back in relief. "Oh, thank God," he said, his voice suddenly tired.

His brief demonstration done, John wiped his mouth on his sleeve and lifted the cup of medicine to hand over to Lestrade.

Lestrade pulled back, hands crossed defensively over his chest. "Well, carry on then," he said. "You're doing very well and I wouldn't want to interrupt. I...uh...I need to check on some things around the garrison. Billy will be here to help out. Continue..." he motioned vaguely at the cup, then at Monseigneur, "...that."

John stared in disbelief as Lestrade turned tail and slipped out of the tent.

God. He was earning his freedom. Every single _fucking_ sip of the way.

* * *

By the time he had finished administering the last mouthful of medicine, John's jaw was positively aching and his body was ready to drop from fatigue. The dull throb at the back of his head was making itself manifest again, and John wished he had swallowed some of the medicine for himself.

Billy had pulled up a stool for him and they sat slumped on either side of the narrow bed, watching as Monseigneur finally drifted off to sleep. John clutched at his wrist lightly with one hand, his index and middle fingers feeling that frantic pulse ease up a little.

"He will want to have a bath when he wakes," Billy finally murmured.

John cast an eye on the bed linens, damp with sweat, but he could no longer smell anything. In fact, he could feel nothing, not even his legs beneath him. "That ought to be the least of our worries right now," he said tiredly.

To change the subject, he said, "You people call him Monseigneur. I take it that's his title, not his name. What does it mean?"

"'My lord'," answered Billy. "It's Gondalian."

"Oh? He's from Gondal, then?"

"His mother's side of the family, yes."

"Who is he?" asked John, curious despite himself.

Billy seemed surprised. "Don't you know who he is?" A look of sudden caution entered his features and his next words were guarded. "Perhaps Lord Lestrade would be the better person to ask these things."

"He's important, I gather as much," said John, nodding at the mask. "I just don't see why there is such a need for secrecy."

Billy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not really that," he said. "It's simply a tradition among Monseigneur's class. They don't show their faces to the general public."

"Why?"

Billy shook his head. "It's their way. Ours is not to reason why," he said, his tone almost apologetic.

Silence for a moment, then John finally asked, "Well, what's his name then?"

Billy looked faintly scandalized. "Nobody mentions his name, especially to his face," he said.

John fixed him with a stare. "But he has a name, hasn't he?"

"Yes," said Billy, but he would say nothing more.

Just then their patient shifted uneasily in his sleep. John and Billy watched as he tossed his head restlessly on the pillow, his lips parting to form a word, softly repeated: _"Maman, Maman..."_

John turned to Billy just in time to see the boy close his eyes, as if pained. "Mother," he translated.

John sighed and said nothing.

If anyone were to tell him he'd be seeing this man- this man who, just yesterday, he had been fighting with- reduced to this, he probably would not have believed it.

John stared at Monseigneur's mouth thoughtfully, taking in that distinctive cupid's bow of an upper lip, and remembered with a flash of resentment that mouth stretched into a cruel smile as the deep voice informed him, John, to surrender or die. The very same mouth that could now only utter _"Maman"_ as weakly as a kitten.

An ironic little twist that life specializes in bringing.

* * *

John must have drifted off for a moment; he started awake as he heard a voice say, "Oh, thank God."

He lifted his head from a folded arm and saw Lestrade bent over Monseigneur, a hand on his forehead.

"The fever's broken," said Lestrade, relief clearly etched in his voice.

"It will come back," answered John, his hand never leaving Monseigneur's wrist. His skin still felt abnormally warm, his pulse still running and running away.

"You'll need to make more medicine then."

"I can make enough to last for one more day," said John, "but I won't have enough of the ingredients after that."

Lestrade glanced up at the roof of the tent, the incessant rain still pattering on the canvas. "Let's hope the weather clears by tomorrow," he said.

A pause. "You must be hungry," Lestrade said. "I've asked Billy to bring you some food."

John blinked, feeling the subtle change in Lestrade's tone and not sure what to make of it. Before he could think to refuse, his stomach growled as if in complete agreement with Lestrade's assessment.

Billy came in bearing a tray of aromatic meat stew and bread as well as a small pitcher of ale. He set it down on a small table nearby and stood next to it expectantly.

John glanced at Lestrade, who nodded. "Go ahead," he said. "Eat. You won't be of any use to us if you're drooping about like a wilted flower."

John rose slowly, wincing at the pins and needles in his cramped legs, and made his way over to the table. Billy handed him a clean, damp towel. John wiped his hands with it, then stared at Billy, who smiled as he pointed at John's face and mimed a wiping motion.

His face too.

John raised his brows at the dirt and grime from his face that came away with the towel, and turned just in time to see Lestrade wipe a small smile from his lips.

A change in the air, yes. What it meant, John had no idea.

He settled down to eat, breaking bread and dipping a chunk of it in the stew. It tasted good. Very good. He fought to keep himself from wolfing it all down. He did not realize just how famished he really was. This would be the first warm meal he had had in days.

"So, John," said Lestrade from his seat beside Monseigneur. "Tell me what you were doing outside our end of the forest out there."

"We were lost, my companions and I," said John, taking a swig of the ale. "We've been lost in the woods for nearly three days."

Lestrade looked bemused. "Three days in those woods," he said, "is all that separates Gaaldine and Angria in these parts, is it?"

"If you think," said John, "that we are going to march on you through those woods, you're mistaken. There is a lot of flat, _clear _terrain between us that will make an advance easier, believe me."

"Agreed," said Lestrade. "On the other hand, God only knows just how many of you are sneaking over here through those very same woods right now."

"Can't wait for the war to start, can you?" John asked, his tone dry.

"Let's hope there won't be one," said Lestrade, correcting him. "Right now your queen is still...negotiating some terms with His Majesty. Let's hope she will decide to accept a compromise and that would be that."

John frowned. "What sort of negotiations?" he asked.

Lestrade stood up. "Not for us to understand, I'm sure," he said easily. Then: "Gregory."

He continued as he took in John's blank expression: "Gregory Lestrade. That's...my name. Well. I'll leave you to finish your meal in peace, John."

As soon as Lestrade left, Billy turned to John and said, "Would it be all right if I give Monseigneur a bath now? At least, just with a wash cloth?"

_Really, what was this bathing obsession with these Gaaldinians?_ thought John, slightly irate.

"Yeah, go ahead."

John watched as Billy carried in a heavy basin of water. John frowned as he stared at the pink and red things floating on top of the water.

Rose petals.

_Rose petals! _

Whatever would these mad Gaaldinians think of next?

John chewed the last of his bread thoughtfully as he watched Billy wash the rose-scented water over Monseigneur's chest, over his arms- as tenderly as a mother would administer to her babe.

Having finished his meal, John approached the sick bed and resumed his seat, clasping his patient's wrist and feeling his pulse. No change. Contrary to the rest of his body temperature, Monseigneur's fingers seemed made of ice.

_What is this?_ thought John once again, staring at Billy's wash cloth as he rubbed it over Monseigneur's sculpted chest, the muscled planes of his stomach. _What am I missing?_

Billy dropped the wash cloth into the basin. "I'm sorry, I forgot to bring in Monseigneur's night shifts," he said. "Excuse me."

John nodded absently as the page bustled away. For a moment, he was left alone with his patient.

John stared at the sheen of sweat on Monseigneur's face, his damp curls. Strangely enough, Billy had not thought to cleanse his face first.

The sick man mumbled in his sleep, raised a hand to claw at the mask shielding his face in a small, irritated movement. Quite weak and ineffectual. For the first time, John felt a wave of pity for the man.

That, he would later realize, was his first mistake.

John glanced at the flap of the tent and back at Monseigneur, biting his lower lip as he wrestled with himself.

What lay behind that mask? Why take such pains to hide his features? Was he ugly or deformed in some way that he had to hide his face from the rest of the world?

John felt the strong, irresistible pull of curiosity and was powerless to stop himself.

_This is totally absurd, this is,_ he decided. He had seen the man totally unclothed, had seen his private parts exposed, and yet he was not allowed to view his face! Only Gaaldinians would have been capable of such artifice.

_Do it now, while nobody's here_, whispered a voice deep inside him. _What harm can it possibly do?_ _Nobody needs to know_ _that you've seen him. _

With that thought, John raised a hand and, with deft and gentle fingers, peeled the mask off the man's face. His second mistake for the evening.

There. He didn't look so bad. His skin was very pale and smooth, like porcelain. Thick, dark eyebrows over closed eyes fringed with dark lashes. Eyes that slanted up ever so slightly at their edges. A straight nose. High, chiseled cheekbones. That extraordinary mouth. A firm chin. Not really handsome, but not bad looking at all.

John did not know how long he was staring at that face, transfixed; he started as the man's eyes suddenly fluttered open and for a moment he found himself staring into those pale blue orbs, the pupils still unnaturally large. Mutely, Monseigneur stared back at John, his gaze unfocused, unaware. Lost.

John fumbled quickly for the wash cloth and wiped it across the man's forehead, over his eyes, his nose, down over his cheeks. And then he smoothed the mask back into place over the man's face. Monseigneur was already unconscious once again by the time he was done.

He glanced around him surreptitiously and exhaled a gusty sigh. He dunked the wash cloth back into the basin and settled back in his seat, and that was how Billy found him a moment later when he reentered the tent with a clean nightgown for Monseigneur.

* * *

The fever was back in a few hours.

Lestrade paced anxiously around the sick bed, watching John as he placed soothing fingers over the man's chest and pinned him down just as he started writhing again.

"He seems in very great pain," said John, frowning. "Ask him where."

Lestrade bent down to whisper into Monseigneur's ear.

They weren't sure if it would register with the man, but he did mutter something in reply, and Lestrade straightened up to say, "Everywhere."

Well, that was helpful.

"Ask him how the pain feels like," said John.

He watched as Monseigneur did a fluid, coiling motion with his entire body, like a snake, but he grunted a reply to Lestrade's query that was quite incomprehensible to John.

"He says it's like burning pins and needles all over," Lestrade said, shrugging a little helplessly.

Monseigneur was moaning softly now, rubbing his face into the pillow, as if by digging deeper into the bed he could somehow ward off the pain.

John was starting to shake his head, stymied, unable to untangle the knot of symptoms and what they meant. And then quite suddenly it hit him like a slap on the face.

The dilated pupils, the dry mouth, that unusually fast heartbeat. The fluctuating, burning pain. Fever that was masking something else.

Something monstrous.

He turned sharply to stare down at Monseigneur, coiling like a serpent on the bed.

Like a serpent.

John looked up at Lestrade, his eyes wide and alight with horrified enlightenment.

Lestrade stopped his pacing. "What?" he demanded.

"Poison," whispered John.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The way John practiced medicine in this fic is based on herbal remedies and his evidence-based approach to medical diagnosis is quite modern, whereas real medieval medicine would have been practiced as Anderson had preached it: the belief that disease was brought about by an imbalance of the four humours, or principal fluids, in the human body: black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood. Or as God's punishment for various sins. If he had his way, Anderson would also have prescribed bloodletting by means of leeches, and also a detailed astrological consultation would have been thrown in. That, and a great deal of incense burning and holy medallions to ward off evil spirits. (source: Wikipedia)

_Allez-vous en_: Go away


	4. Chapter 3

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 3**

* * *

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

_"Poison,"_ John said.

Lestrade recoiled from the softly whispered word as though it had been shrieked into his ear suddenly, with no warning. Behind him, Billy made an inquiring sound and leaned in to catch what John had just said.

Lestrade quickly turned to the boy and said, "Billy, leave us for a moment, that's a good lad."

When he was gone, Lestrade turned back to John and shook his head in warning. "You did _not_ just say what I thought you said," he growled. His face had turned ashen.

"I just did," John said.

"Fucking hell!" exploded Lestrade, the bottom seeming to drop out of his deep voice so that for a moment, it quivered in near-panic.

John felt pretty much the same thing. He fought to keep from spitting, from wiping his tongue on his sleeve. What use was it now? God only knew how many times he had placed his mouth on that man's to force him to take his medicine in the last few hours. His mouth, in contact with the mouth of a poisoned man! How could he have been so thoughtless? _God! _

John did not waste any more time. Already, he was digging into the bag of medicine beside him even as Lestrade mouthed "poison" again silently to himself in stunned disbelief.

"How can you be sure?" demanded Lestrade, wiping his mouth with a hand that was visibly trembling. "More importantly, what's to be done? _Can_ anything be done?"

"I can't be entirely sure, but it's the only diagnosis to fit all the symptoms," said John as he dumped the contents of his bag onto the floor and began sifting through the ingredients impatiently.

"John, you cannot be _not _sure about something as serious as this!" exclaimed Lestrade. "What in God's name are we going to do? _Poison!"_

John lifted a small cluster of wilting white flowers. "Do you know what this is?" he said.

Lestrade stared at the sorry-looking bouquet. "I'm sure I have no idea," he said. "But please tell me that's the antidote that you're clutching there."

"Right you are," said John. "This is what we call the White Star. It's more like white gold. Rarer than gold, in fact, and definitely worth much, much more. Three days in the forest, and I only got to find this much. I'm lucky to find any at all. This is what we use to treat people who accidentally ate the berries of deadly Nightshade."

"Nightshade." Lestrade's jaw dropped as his eyes widened. "You mean, Monseigneur has been poisoned with _Nightshade?!"_

"Or a derivative of it," said John, tearing the white flowers into bits in a bowl. "The symptoms are not a complete fit. If it were really pure Nightshade, he would be gone by now, given the amount of time that's elapsed since he fell ill. But the enlarged pupils in his eyes were the giveaway. I was a fool not to have thought of it earlier. I've never treated a patient poisoned like this before."

"But there is no cure for Nightshade poisoning," argued Lestrade, but he could not suppress the gleam of hope that sprang in his eyes as he stared at John's white flowers.

John looked up. "Now you know differently," he said, a slight smile on his lips.

Upon hearing those words- spoken so quietly yet so full of self-assurance- relief flooded Lestrade, so much so that he seemed to deflate for a moment. As if remembering himself at the last minute, he straightened. "But how did he get to ingest Nightshade?" he asked, bewildered. "We've all eaten and drunk the same thing since we came here. I made doubly sure Monseigneur was never given anything untested—"

"But the fact remains that it somehow got into his system," said John as he started mashing the flowers. _And that's all there is to it_, he added silently. "I will need something to dissolve this. An oil. Tincture of myrhh would be the best, but—"

"We've got myrhh," Lestrade said quickly.

John blinked. The way Lestrade sounded, it was as though he were saying, from one neighbor to another, _"We've got flour."_

"All right. That would be perfect," John said.

Lestrade marched away to call Billy back in. "Young man," he said, "what did you hear the doctor say earlier?"

Billy shrugged. "I…I don't know, sir," he said. "I didn't quite hear—"

"You heard nothing," said Lestrade firmly. "You did not even see his lips move, and you are to keep a still tongue in your head about all this. From now on, nobody outside gets to know about what goes on inside this tent. Am I clear?"

Billy gulped. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now go ask for some myrhh from Anderson for the doctor."

Lestrade turned to find John's gaze alternating between himself and the departing page. "Don't worry about him," said Lestrade, "he's my nephew. I can trust him to keep his mouth shut."

"Oh." John looked down at the crushed flowers in the bowl.

_And what about me?_ He wondered. _Are you not worried about trusting me so unquestioningly? Just a few hours ago, I'm nothing but your captive. Your master's enemy in the field. Are you not worried that I might be having you on all this time? I can very easily lead you down the wrong path and kill your master in front of you, and you won't be able to do anything about it until it's too late. You can kill me afterwards but then the damage would have been done._

Thank God Lestrade could not read minds. John kept his head down for a moment, just to be sure, crushing the flowers in the bowl with more energy than was necessary until they turned into a gooey paste.

The man on the bed was curled into a tight ball of agony, moaning softly, incoherently, into the pillow. John watched as Lestrade put out a hesitant hand to touch his master's shoulder. The contact was brief, awkward, as was the arrangement of his face. It lasted only a moment, and then Lestrade was pulling his hand away.

There was no faking Lestrade's concern for his master. He cared about him, obviously. Whatever his feelings and their depth, though, it was clear that he was not the demonstrative type, John thought. Or perhaps Monseigneur was just not the type of man to invite the expression of such feelings.

A rustle of canvas as Billy returned with the tincture of myrhh, and John added a few drops to the paste.

"What? That's it?" asked Lestrade, staring at the liquid which would have been no more than four or five teaspoons worth of medicine at most.

"He needs only a drop or two every time he takes his medicine," said John. "I'll need a small bottle."

It took a moment for Billy to find one for him, but he got John a dainty little glass bottle where he could carefully scrape the medicine into. John used his finger to wipe away any remaining medicine from the bowl and this he put into his own mouth. He grimaced from the bitter taste.

"Hold him down," instructed John to Lestrade and Billy as he added a few drops of the new extract into what was left of Monseigneur's fever medicine.

Once again he took the medicine into his mouth and, with smooth, practiced movements, bent over Monseigneur to fasten his mouth upon his and push the medicine into him.

* * *

They sat for a while and watched Monseigneur's agonized writhing ease up as he slipped into deep sleep.

"That's the last of the fever medicine," said John, weariness creeping into his voice. "I'll need to go back to the forest to look for more of the ingredients."

"I'll have someone escort you there tomorrow," said Lestrade.

A brooding silence settled over them as they stared at Monseigneur's sleeping form.

"Your comrade, Anderson," John said suddenly. "He mentioned something about the plague, about Mo— _him_, going to some God-forsaken village. What was that all about?"

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Anderson was being stupid," he said. "And anyway, you think this isn't it. The plague, I mean."

"It's only something worse, yeah," agreed John.

Lestrade shifted uneasily in his seat. "Monseigneur has heard of reports that one or two villages around the border with Angria have succumbed to some sort of mysterious illness," he said. "People were said to be well in the morning and then dead in the afternoon. There was panic and a whole lot of hearsay. You know how it is. Rumors travel on swift wings."

He paused. "How did you know this wasn't the plague?" Lestrade asked.

"No tender lumps in his hips and armpits," John said. "I've not treated a plague patient before, but I've heard that's one quick way to tell whether it is or it isn't. And a rash, like small rings of roses, on the skin."

Lestrade nodded. "Oh. So that was what you were doing, feeling around his hips," he said.

John gave him a shuttered look. "Of course," he murmured. "What did you suppose I was doing?"

Lestrade refused to be lured into an argument. For the first time, he grinned at John. "You know a lot, don't you?" he said. "What we'd give to have a doctor like you in our ranks."

He cleared his throat and looked away as John stared at him. "Anyway, is that medicine working already or not?" he asked.

"Too soon to tell," said John. "Although he's sleeping soundly. That's a good start."

"Yeah, good," said Lestrade. "Very good."

He sighed and stood up, stretching the kink out of his legs. "I'll need to check on some things around camp. I'll leave him to you then, John."

"Right."

There it was again. That little, niggling thought at the back of John's mind as he watched Lestrade's departure.

Billy moved to take Lestrade's seat. Dinner, he said. They must have some dinner.

"Long night ahead of us," John told Billy in reply. "Might as well make ourselves comfortable."

* * *

Lestrade came again sometime late in the night and, satisfied that Monseigneur's condition was stable and had not worsened, he left again to attend to other matters. The never-ending responsibilities of a general in his garrison.

For a while, Billy talked to John about falconry, his one obsession. A safe topic. Something that would do neither of them any harm to talk about. John disclosed very little about himself, thinking there was not much about him that Billy would be interested in knowing. After that, there had been longer and longer stretches of silence that were almost comfortable between them. In the end, they might have gotten too comfortable, or perhaps it was just the fatigue finally making itself manifest. Either way, John awoke suddenly to the realization that he and Billy had both dozed off.

The light in the tent was dim- the candle behind him had burned low. It must be very early in the morning. The rain outside had stopped and all was still, quiet. John wasn't sure what it was that had waked him— perhaps a movement from Monseigneur. He glanced at the hand lying beside him and felt for his pulse. Slowing down to normal, at last. His skin was warm but not hot. The fever had finally broken.

John stood up quietly so as not to disturb Billy and gently placed both hands on Monseigneur's face. Carefully, he lifted his eyelids and turned him towards the light. His pupils were back to their normal sizes; John could see the pale blue in his eyes once again.

"Oh thank God," John said, his voice a mere breath.

He let go of Monseigneur's face and hovered uncertainly for a moment above him. When he did not wake, John slowly sat back in his seat and regarded his patient.

Even in illness, he looked quite extraordinary. His skin was as pale as the white linen sheets of the bed, his wayward, curling hair raven-black against the cream-colored pillow. That silly black mask, hiding his face from the world. Whatever for? A face, John realized with a start, that he found he wanted to see once again. But it was too risky; Billy was here. He might wake any moment and see what John was up to.

John's eyes travelled slowly down Monseigneur's covered features to settle on his lips, slightly parted as he pulled air in and let it go softly, rhythmically. John swallowed, remembering the softness of those lips beneath his, the way they had moved against his as he sealed his mouth over Monseigneur's to make sure he swallowed his medicine.

John frowned. _What is this?_ He asked himself.

He'd administered medicine to patients by mouth before— men and women— yet he was sure he had never felt like this about any of them. He'd never allowed himself to be affected. But then again, he'd never met anybody like Monseigneur. A study in contrasts: the man was all black and white, powerful and vulnerable, inherently dangerous and yet helpless as a babe, for now— all manner of contradictions combining in his person to form a strange, perfectly balanced picture.

And beautiful.

He was beautiful. He really shouldn't be, but he was. From his unusual features to the sweep of his hair; from the long, graceful line of his throat to his broad, sculpted chest, disappearing into the folds of his loose nightshirt; the muscled, sinewy arms and fine hands with long, tapering fingers. Monseigneur's hands were very white, as though it were he, not John, who was born and raised in snow country.

John took an unsteady breath and looked away, feeling a strange heat staining his cheeks. This was absolutely disturbing. What he was feeling was quite alien to him, and highly improper. They were both men. And he must never forget that this person was not, and could never be, a friend of his.

John sighed. It was just as well that Monseigneur was getting better. That would mean that he himself would be departing sooner. Away from this oddity of a man and back to his own end of the world. Back to his life and its ordinary hardships— a life full of care and hard work, with very little time to rest.

John yawned.

Rest, yes. For now perhaps he could. Rest for a little while longer...

He felt drowsiness settle on him once more with gentle insistence. He did not resist it very much. Soon he was nodding off again.

Perhaps that was the reason why he never saw Monseigneur open his eyes a fraction to study him for long minutes, with such silent intensity. He touched him too- lifting his pale fingers to repeat the tiny gesture that had roused John as he brushed them fleetingly, experimentally, at John's fingertips.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The symptoms of poisoning as experienced by Monseigneur is based on those induced by belladonna alkaloids, derived from deadly **Nightshade**— one of the more commonly known poisons of the medieval ages. Dilated pupils would be the most obvious finding, followed by a dry mouth, increased heart rate and heightened temperature. Sweating would not be so common— skin dryness would be more along its line. There was no adequate cure for Nightshade poisoning during those times— the white star is just a product of my imagination.

**Myrrh** (Armaic for "bitter") is an oleoresin (essential oil+resin) known since ancient biblical times for its many medicinal properties and for making perfume. An expensive luxury, it was used as an antiseptic, for embalming the dead, and for religious rituals. As medicine during the Middle Ages, it was used for the treatment of bleeding gums, oral ulcers and sore throat. It was also used as an expectorant for colds and congestion. Its use here in this fic is chiefly an invention of mine.

The signs and symptoms of the **Bubonic Plague** (Black Death) that swept across Europe in the Middle Ages can best be summarized by a (sinister) nursery rhyme: Ring a ring o' roses (to indicate the skin lesions seen)/ A pocket full of posies (people carried posies of flowers thinking these could drive the disease away)/ Atishoo! Atishoo! (accompanying flu-like symptoms such as sneezing)/ We all fall down (and millions did, back then). It was called "bubonic" because of the telltale swelling of the lymph nodes (buboes) in the armpits and groin.


	5. Chapter 4

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! They really help a lot to inspire me to write more, and quickly. Please do leave a signed review if you can, but if not, I'd just like to say how much I appreciate your taking the time to write to me and to tell me what you think!

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

Morning came, and with it, Lestrade.

He came striding in just as John and Billy were finishing their breakfast of bread and cheese, sharing the inevitable pitcher of ale. He had his back turned to John as he bent over Monseigneur to touch his master's forehead with his hand; all the same, John registered the moment his tense shoulders relaxed when he noted the fever had gone.

Lestrade turned to John, a question lighting up his eyes.

"He's been free of the fever for several hours now," answered John, "and his pupils have gone back to normal. He awoke briefly an hour ago to ask for something to drink."

Lestrade exhaled his relief noisily, then placed a heavy hand on John's shoulder and squeezed briefly. He was smiling. It lit his face and for a brief moment, John could almost see the boy in the man. Lestrade's gesture, John realized, was more expressive than what he had given his master the night before.

John gave him a brief smile, unsure of how to react to Lestrade's gratefulness. They had struck a deal, but John had not expected such a thawing of relations, so fast. Were Gaaldinians really this soft on their captives?

"Your escorts are waiting outside to take you to the forest," Lestrade said.

John left the bottle of antidote with Billy after placing a drop or two directly on Monseigneur's tongue. Already his mouth was moist again, another good sign that the antidote was working.

After imparting his instructions to Billy, John stepped out of the tent with Lestrade. He squinted at the early morning sunlight, at the familiar, welcome sights and sounds of a busy garrison starting a new day...even if it were the enemy's garrison.

"Those are your escorts right there," said Lestrade, nodding to their right.

John turned and checked at the sight of the figures standing a few feet away from them.

"John, this is Sally Donovan," said Lestrade, pertaining to the dark-skinned woman whose triangular weapon had cost John his fight with Monseigneur the other day. "Sally, John Watson."

Sally did not seem to be particularly thrilled with the idea of escorting John through the forest. She returned his wary and veiled gaze with one of her own. The other person close by was a young man, obviously one of the stable boys in charge of the horses.

"And John, just remember we still have your companion with us, in case you get tempted by the fine weather to wander away?"Lestrade said amiably. "Not that you need the reminder, I'm sure."

John's lips thinned, but he nodded. Now this was more the norm between captor and captive.

"Back in four hours, maximum, understood?" said Lestrade to Sally.

"Aye, sir." Sally Donovan turned away after giving John one last, oblique look and headed for a couple of horses, saddled and ready.

She waved a hand to John to take the other horse as she vaulted up effortlessly over her own. The servant boy pulled up behind them on his own steed. Ready to go.

"Let's get some things clear," Donovan said to John in a peremptory tone even before they could leave the garrison. "My lord Lestrade was skeptical that I should accompany you alone into the forest. I told him I can handle you and bring you back in one piece. Prove me wrong by being difficult, or by running away, and I shall bring you back in pieces. Clear?"

She had a high, slightly nasal voice, annoying when one was exposed to it short-term and positively grating to the ear when exposed to it for a longer time.

"How are you going to do that?" asked John, not at all cowed by her impressive little speech. "With that triangular thing you used to bop me in the head with the other day?"

Donovan dropped the heavy cloak draped around her person to show him the weapon slung on her back. "It's a boomerang," she declared haughtily. "If you must talk about it, call it by its proper name. And I didn't mean to spare you the other day: you moved out of range at the last minute. I won't miss your head this time around, so don't get any fancy ideas."

_Let's see about that with trees all around us_, thought John grimly, but it was an idle threat, even to himself. He couldn't jeopardize Alec's safety, and for all his newfound congeniality, John was sure Lestrade could be implacable when he chose to be.

Besides, Sally Donovan carried with her an additional weapon: a longbow and arrows. Her boomerang might get stuck in the trees, but he doubted all her arrows would. All it would take was one, accurately aimed, to take him down.

Soon the garrison was behind them and they rode out into the open country. With the early morning sun shining in a clear blue sky and the air crisp and clean, the rains from yesterday seemed like they had never been. John felt his spirits rise with the wind.

For all her sour reluctance to be in his company, Sally Donovan was not one to keep her mouth shut for long. "He's a fine one, isn't he?" she said as they galloped along. "As if we don't have enough work to do, he comes traipsing in, incommoding everyone with his whims and his little games to keep himself amused. I mean, who in their right minds would want to go near a plague-infested village within a stone's throw from enemy lines, on the eve of a war? None other than our Monseigneur!"

"You don't seem terribly fond of him," observed John dryly.

Donovan let out a short, barking laugh. "Please," she said. "You've not been around him long enough, have you? Not long enough while he's lucid, anyway. So what is it? Has he really caught the plague?"

"Nothing but a little fever," said John evasively. "He'll be up in a few days."

"Woe to us, then," said Donovan carelessly. "On the other hand, if something were to happen to him while he's here— if he were really to die on us, we are all as good as dead."

She looked at him with something close to distaste in her eyes. "Imagine dying for someone like him," she said. "I've got better things to do with my life."

"Your loyalty and devotion are quite overwhelming," remarked John flatly.

"I'm loyal and devoted to Gaaldine," she said, shrugging, "and to the King. I serve the King's brother under my lord Lestrade, but that doesn't mean I have to like him."

_The brother of the king of Gaaldine_, thought John. _So that's who Monseigneur is._

"You'd think he's here to lead the garrison in preparation for war," she continued disparagingly. "But no! He's here to investigate the little mystery about a couple of deserted, plague-infested villages on the border!"

"So you were there," said John. "The other day, that village a mile or so away from—"

"Aye. That's the one."

"Found anything?" asked John casually.

"What's there to find?" asked Donovan shortly. "The dead have long since been buried, the village deserted. Monseigneur would waste his time inspecting the village well for all he's worth and it's not going to help bring anything back. We had to burn our clothes when we got back to camp."

"So you found nothing?"

"Well, we found you and your friend some distance away not long after that, didn't we?" said Donovan with a smirk.

John looked away. What was Monseigneur doing, coming all this way to inspect a well in a village, deserted and of ill-repute? To believe Donovan, he had not come here for the war, after all.

"Of course, your winning over Monseigneur in that swordfight was something else," admitted Donovan. "I've never seen anyone beat him that easily before, not even Lestrade. So who are you?"

John swallowed. "I'm…nobody," he said.

"Hard to believe, if Lestrade would choose to retain you like this." Donovan's deference to her superior appeared to be diminishing as they got farther and farther away from camp. "Until you came along, nobody may look upon Monseigneur. And now nobody may say anything about your winning over him, either."

John chose to ignore the last part of her comment. "Really? Nobody may look upon his person?" he said. "Not even his personal physician?"

"He does not have a physician, that's the point," said Donovan. "Until now he's been able to get on without one. He said he does not believe in them."

Before John could say anything, Donovan raised her voice: "We're here!"

The forest loomed over them like a vast, impenetrable wall. They dismounted just where the trees began. Sally gave specific instructions to the stable boy in charge of their horses: "We should be back in two hours, perhaps two and a half. If we're not back by then, send for reinforcements."

John stared as she produced a ball of string from her bag slung over one shoulder. "What?" she queried, returning his gaze. "I have no intention of getting lost in the woods. With or without you."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?" asked John, watching her tie the string to a nearby tree.

"I do my best."

With just two hours in the forest, John figured they would not be able to come across much. Donovan kept up a steady stream of chatter as they made their way along the dense undergrowth.

John's question, "You're not really from Gaaldine, are you?" had sparked a flood of information— interesting tidbits, John had to admit.

No, she was not originally from Gaaldine. She was not even from Gondal, though she had been brought there at a young age. She was from one of the Gondalian colonies located farther south across not one, but two seas— a land where there was never any snow and the women were brought up to be splendid, prized fighters. Amazons, they were called. None of the shrinking little milksops who were the epitome of womanhood in Gondal or Gaaldine, and perhaps even in Angria, though she wouldn't really know much about John's country and his people. She had seen more of the world than John, and compared to hers, his seemed a dull, uneventful life.

"So Gondalians and Gaaldinians have women in their armies?" said John, interested despite himself. He would have wanted to say that Angrian women, in their defense, were hardy women— learned in the arts of healing and intensely practical— but it was also quite true that Angrian men preferred to keep them out of sight and behind closed, domestic doors.

Donovan gave him a derisive snort. "Angrians are just about the only ones who don't," she said. She meant it as an insult, a way of showing John just how backward and unprogressive his people were. It worked. It struck a nerve.

"You won't mind getting captured in battle then?" John's tone carried a heavier undertone of menace than he had intended. "From the way you're making us sound, we may not be able to restrain ourselves in the company of a lovely warrior woman or two. An entire garrison of randy, barely civilized men— just think of the possibilities."

"We'd kill ourselves first rather than risk being caught," she said loftily, her chin raised. "Anyway, you're a fine one to talk. Aren't you frightened, being a captive of the wicked Black Wolf of Gaaldine?"

"Oh? Is that his full title? The Wicked Black Wolf of Gaaldine?" said John, deliberately accentuating each word for comic effect.

Donovan laughed. "It may as well be," she said. "The King's brother is a freak, don't you know? I thought his reputation precedes him, even in Angria. There's nobody in the kingdom more twisted than he. Talk has it he's got some very strange practices down in his chateau—his castle. Wolf's Lair, he calls it. They say he has had lovers locked up in his dungeons for his unspeakable pleasures, never to be seen alive again. Male lovers. You see, he refuses to be mundane and have normal tastes, even in that area. I'd be trembling in my boots, if I were you. He might just have a taste for rough-and-ready Highlanders such as yourself."

John's patience with the woman had worn thin as he listened to this fantastic bit of outlandish gossip. "Surely you wouldn't believe in such stories?" he said shortly. "They sound like outright lies. Even I'd have trouble believing them, and I don't know a thing about the man."

Donovan was unperturbed. "Are they really outright lies?" she said. "Well, I've been to the Lair. I can tell you firsthand that there really is something going on in the dungeons, late at night. Unearthly noises. Stinking smells that ought to remain confined in Hell. God only knows what Monseigneur does down there for hours at a time when he is in residence. I wouldn't be surprised if he's into black magic. How else can he be what he is?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," John said as they picked their way deeper into the forest.

"Wait until he's lucid," said Donovan, her voice heavy with dark promise. "Wait until he gets his wits back about him, and you're going to see what I mean. He's going to strip you— take you apart piece by piece and put you back together again until you'd think you don't know yourself. But he'll know."

"Know what?" John asked, slightly irked that the woman was talking riddles.

"Everything about you, of course. And one or two things you don't know about yourself. He will tell you everything there is to know about you even before you open your mouth. The man is a demon. It's the only explanation."

"And you have no qualms, serving under a demon?" John asked, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Donovan smiled bitterly. "You don't understand," she said, her voice brittle. "Not yet, anyway. But perhaps you will, soon. You will find that those who serve him simply do not have a choice in the matter."

She turned away from him abruptly, as if finally conscious that she had said too much. She looked around, taking in the green darkness of their surroundings. "Anyway, just what are we looking for here, exactly? It's like we've been walking forever," she said.

John blinked at her abrupt change of topic. So absorbed was he in Donovan's narration that it took him a moment to process her question.

"Keep your eyes open for a certain white flower," he said. "It's going to be small, about this size—" John motioned with his thumb and index finger. "It may or may not grow in clusters. It's shaped like a star, with six, pointed petals."

"Got it," said Donovan.

An additional half hour of searching got them nothing remotely resembling the flower in question, though John found a tree that could help with Alec's wound. Donovan watched as John bent to scrape off the bark with a knife. He deposited his shavings in his bag.

He wished she would continue her narration about the wickedness of Monseigneur. Against his better judgment, he was finding her accounts engrossing, but she was now as tight-lipped as an uncooked clam, her impatience to get away from the forest evident in every line of her face and body.

Almost an hour went by, and they were only able to find the bark shavings and a few mushrooms.

"This is like finding a needle in a haystack," fumed Donovan, swatting at mosquitoes.

"More like a needle in a haystack the size of a forest," corrected John. "We can cover more ground if we split up, but of course, that would be out of the question."

"Most definitely," she agreed darkly. "Just where did you find those flowers in the first place?"

"It would have been helpful if my companions and I were not lost," John said blithely. "But as things stood…"

She pinned him with a glare before he got any further. She was sick and tired of the mosquitoes and wading shin-deep in the nasty, clinging undergrowth that could hide a myriad selection of nameless, creeping things, and John's misplaced, bantering sarcasm was not helping any.

"Well, definitely deeper in the forest," said John, cutting his conversation short. Donovan might be an Amazon, but charmable she definitely was not.

In the end, they found some of the ingredients for the fever concoction, though John felt sure Monseigneur would not need those now.

But no white stars.

"Time's up," Donovan finally announced, reeling in her string.

"Leave it. Just leave it," said John. "That way, we will know we've already been through this part of the forest when we need to come back next time."

_If I'm coming back_, he thought. _With any luck, I'll be on my way back to Angria in a few days. And not through here, either._

So they left the string tied to a tree and retraced their steps back to the well-lighted world beyond the cool, green gloom of the forest.

* * *

Billy was there to meet them as soon as they returned to the garrison.

"John Watson, sir," he said. "My lord Lestrade asked me to come and fetch you as soon as you arrive."

John felt the skin of his nape prickle in sudden alarm. "What is it?" he asked. "What's happened?"

Billy grinned. "Nothing bad, sir," he said. "My lord Lestrade asked me to take you to your bath. And to give you a shave and a haircut as well. You will need them, he said, before he can present you to Monseigneur."

John turned sharply to stare at Billy, who smiled happily. "Yes, Monseigneur has awakened not long after you're gone, sir," he said.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: **Wolf's Lair**, the name of Monseigneur's castle, is (unfortunately) the name of Hitler's largest wartime headquarters (**Wolfschannze** in German). I thought an otherwise cool name deserves a little rehab.

A note on medieval eating habits, especially during the early medieval period: people only got to have two meals a day. The major meal was _dinner_ (our lunch), followed by a lighter meal at the end of the day. Because the original basis for this latter meal was soup, or sops, it became known as _supper_. Eating breakfast was not standard practice until during the later medieval period, to accommodate the increasingly intense amount of labor required during the day. Breakfast items included all varieties of bread, with tasty additions such as cheese, pieces of dried fish or boiled meat. Ale, wine or beer was almost always drunk instead of water, due to the unhygienic state of most water sources at the time. (Source: Godecookery . com)


	6. Chapter 5

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

"You…you don't have to do that," spluttered John in the large, wooden tub as Billy poured a bucket of warm, soapy water over him. "I can do it myself."

"Sorry, sir," said Billy, taking up a scrub brush made of twigs that looked dangerously spiky to John. "My orders are to see to it that you get a proper and thorough bath."

John wiped away a wet lock of hair from his eyes and stared, nonplussed, at Billy. What the boy meant by "proper and thorough", John did not care to know.

"You know what? You can stand right over there and watch while I take a bath, how is that? Give me that," said John, grabbing at the brush before Billy could start wreaking havoc with it on his person. Gingerly, he started scrubbing his back. "So what did your master say, when he woke up?"

"Well, he asked where he was. That was a bit worrisome, but he just needed a moment to get his bearings," said Billy. "He asked for a cup of ale, then my lord Lestrade."

"Oh." John continued to scrub his back thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

"He said he could drink an entire ocean," said Billy, breaking into a grin. "He was so thirsty."

John smiled as he transferred the brush to scrub at his shoulders.

Apparently, Billy had been booted out of the tent as soon as his uncle had entered, so there was very little else that John could glean from him.

John stared down at the bath water as it foamed gently around him, thinking just how much dirt one could accumulate by being stranded in the forest for three whole days. Thinking about something like that was good, because John did not want to think about Monseigneur and what it meant for him to be awake, now.

After John's bath, a barber came in to have his bristly, several-days old beard shaved off and his longish, unruly mop of hair trimmed close to his head, after the fashion of Gaaldinian men. It was all mildly alarming, as though he were shedding a layer of himself, familiar and comfortable, and donning on the persona of somebody else.

A stranger.

In the mirror that Billy held out for him, he looked like a stranger— out of his well-worn tunic and into a clean, white linen shirt, new breeches and soft boots. He had not seen himself properly for so long, except perhaps in the distorted reflection of running water whenever he could pause by a river to drink or wash himself, that for a moment he had not recognized the face peering back at him in the large, smooth mirror.

_Is that really me?_ Thought John, gazing at himself and frowning as if deeply puzzled. A man, no longer young, with short blond hair and inquisitive blue eyes frowned back at him in the mirror.

As a final touch, Billy gave him a soft jacket of grey lamb's wool to don over his shirt, and he was suddenly indistinguishable from any Gaaldinian out of armor in the camp.

"What's that?" John warily eyed the bottle that Billy was raising toward him.

"Scent, sir," said Billy, looking surprised.

_Scent!_

"I'm not wearing any _scent_," said John, disgusted.

"But sir—"

John was already striding out of the tent, fast, lest it would occur to Billy to spray the perfume after him. He was shaking his head all the while.

_These mad, mad Gaaldinians!_

People paused to stare at him as he made his way past them. Judging from their stares, it seemed they knew him. Obviously they knew all about the two captive Angrians, one of whom was now running around loose in the garrison in new clothes, preparing to be presented to their Prince.

John felt a heavy wave of unreality wash over him, as though these were scenarios in a dream. This was all wrong. This wasn't how things were supposed to be for a captive soldier in an enemy camp, was it?

Billy ran to catch up with him. "Were you able to find anything of interest in the forest, sir?" he asked.

_Sir, sir sir_. Billy had been polite and friendly to John from the very first, but even so, the word was relatively new in his vocabulary as he addressed John.

"John," John said, stopping abruptly and turning to face Billy. He couldn't bear it any longer. He had to put an end to this.

Billy blinked. "Sir?"

"John. Just call me John. Don't call me…_that."_

"Yes, sir— John." Billy cleared his throat.

John swore to himself that he wasn't going to ask it, but the question flew out of his lips before he could stop himself, "He didn't…ask for me, did he?"

"Sir? Oh, you mean Monseigneur," said Billy. He shook his head. _No._

"All right."

Fine. It was all fine. It's not as if he really cared one way or the other. John was simply wondering when he was going to be released, now that Monseigneur was awake and apparently on the road to recovery.

They were now nearing the huge, opulent tent. Lestrade came out just then, looking this way and that before catching sight of them. To Billy he said, "Monseigneur says you may let Azrail out for an hour or two."

Lestrade then beckoned to John. _Come in, quickly._

John hesitated at the threshold of the tent. He found that he was unprepared for this. He was not sure if he was ever going to be prepared to face Monseigneur, awake and in possession of himself again. But then he was stepping into the tent, away from the bright, open sunlight and into the lush, dark interiors of Monseigneur's quarters.

"The doctor, Monseigneur," he heard Lestrade say as way of introduction.

It took a moment for John's eyes to adjust to the new, subdued lighting, and when he did, he caught sight of his patient, awake and propped up on a mound of soft pillows.

Silence as doctor and patient regarded each other across the confines of the tent. Monseigneur was still as a statue as he lay on his heap of pillows, his masked face giving nothing away as he gazed at John. John, for his part, stood straight, feet slightly apart. He realized his fingers were trembling slightly; he kept his hands linked behind his back.

Then the deep voice, possessing something of the cool darkness of the tent's interior, sounded: "Come closer."

John approached the bed cautiously then stopped a few feet away from Monseigneur. He forced himself to meet that intense, pale gaze and remembered the last time he had seen it, burning into him, as they fought in that vast green field in the nascent rain. He returned a look as steady and neutral as he could make it.

Monseigneur's mask gave John no chance to make out what its owner was thinking.

"Your name?" The deep voice issued from lips that barely moved.

_As if he does not know_, thought John. _Surely Lestrade would have told him by now._

"John." He cleared his throat. Then almost as an afterthought, he added, "Watson."

"John," repeated Monseigneur, letting his breath out in one smooth rush so that John's name came out sounding slightly different: _Zhuhn._

"Lestrade says we have you to thank for taking care of me," the deep voice continued. It was firmer now, but still languid. "Though it must feel strange, must it not, to find yourself in roles suddenly reversed and unclear to you?"

_Damn right_, said John to himself. _And it would be wonderful if someone were to enlighten me as to what I really am to you right now._

John wasn't sure if Monseigneur was really expecting an answer though, so he kept quiet.

"So tell me, John," continued Monseigneur, reverting to the usual pronunciation of John's name as he fixed him with that unearthly gaze once again. "Why did a healer decide to leave everything behind to become a soldier? To look at you, you've only been a soldier for the past four, five years. A good one, I might add, but why the sudden change in profession?"

John frowned. How did the man know he was a healer first and a soldier much, much later?

He opened his mouth, found he couldn't really frame an answer to that query— such a deeply personal query, too— and turned to stare at Lestrade. But Lestrade was not helping. Standing a little behind John, he kept his gaze fixedly on his boots, a slight, bemused smile playing on his lips.

"The Angrian armies need healers in their ranks, same as any other army," John finally replied, shrugging.

"Hmm. But that's hardly your reason for joining the Angrian armies, is it?" Monseigneur said.

He ignored the look of naked surprise on John's face. He was already moving on. "Lestrade says you made a very interesting diagnosis from my…condition."

John felt his eyebrows rising further. So Monseigneur thought it was interesting, being poisoned? Was that all he thought of the situation?

"Poison, you think?" The mask obstructed John's attempts to make out the man's expression, but judging from the slight widening of those pale, slanting eyes, John thought he was at least interested to hear what he had to say.

"Yes," John said. "We thought—"

"_Poison."_ Monseigneur repeated the word again, sounding faintly incredulous. "How did you diagnose it?"

"Your dilated pupils," said John. "It's the first thing that didn't fit in the picture of an ordinary fever."

"Lestrade told me that you think it's deadly Nightshade," continued Monseigneur.

"Or a derivative of it, yes. Your symptoms were more subtle than those induced by Nightshade."

"Elegant," said Monseigneur, unable to suppress a smile.

John frowned. Did he hear that correctly? Was Monseigneur still talking about John's diagnostic abilities, or the poison itself? Or both?

"So who do you think is capable of this kind of...subtlety?" Monseigneur asked next.

John shook his head, glancing at Lestrade a bit helplessly. _Is this for real?_

Lestrade merely looked back at him and said nothing.

"You…surely you have enemies," said John, turning back to the sick man.

"My arch-enemy, do you think, Lestrade?" said Monseigneur, throwing his general an amused glance.

John was not sure who the man was pertaining to, but it seemed Lestrade knew. He watched as Lestrade shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

"Now, Monseigneur…" Lestrade murmured, a reproving note gradually creeping into his voice.

"How do you suppose the poison got into me, John?" asked Monseigneur next, his attention back on John. It seemed that he was enjoying himself immensely at the expense of the two men.

"Poisons are usually slipped into food or drink—" John began.

"So you think the poisoner is here with us now, in this camp?"

"It's very possible—"

"If the poison got into my food or drink, do you not suppose I would have started vomiting first?"

John was starting to feel as though he were being quizzed. "Yes, that's…of course, that's—"

"But I didn't vomit."

"That doesn't rule out—"

"And Lestrade made sure to have my food and drink tested before I partook of any nourishment. I believe he did a thorough job," pointed out Monseigneur. "Nobody else succumbed to this. Except me."

"You think the poison was administered another way, then?" John asked, getting interested despite himself.

"What if I were to tell you that I think you might have done it?" asked Monseigneur, his entire demeanor coolly composed.

John realized his mouth had dropped open. He exhaled a breath of incredulous laughter. _"Me?"_ he said. "You think it was me?"

"Why not?" Monseigneur's voice was suddenly very cold. Unamused.

John stared at the man in front of him as though he had suddenly morphed into an entirely different being altogether.

A demon, Sally Donovan had called him.

"We fought, just before I came down with this illness," continued Monseigneur, his words coming out in a rush. "There were moments when we came into contact with each other in the field. You were the last person to touch me. You could have introduced the poison anytime, then."

John began to shake his head. _I can't believe I'm hearing this!_ He thought. Gradually, he felt the first stirrings of anger coiling inside his chest.

"You're a healer," Monseigneur pressed on relentlessly. "You possess the remedy, why not the actual poison?"

A brief silence as John continued to stare at his patient, his gaze hardening as each second slipped by.

_Ungrateful son of a bitch!_ He thought in disbelief.

"That makes sense," John said at last, fighting to keep his voice under control. "Yeah. Of course, I could have done it. Why not? Except you overlooked one thing. One _vital_ thing."

"And what is that?"

"Back when we were fighting, I didn't need poison to finish you off," said John, his voice quietly furious. "I disarmed you. I had you right there in front of me, defenseless. I could have just run my sword through you then and it would have been so much simpler, believe me."

For a moment, it seemed as though nobody were breathing. The tense silence was so thick that John could hear passersby talking just outside the tent.

Then, quite unexpectedly, Monseigneur smiled. "Well said," he said softly.

Bewildered and still angry, John felt the tense heaviness in the air dissipate. He saw Monseigneur give Lestrade a faint nod, heard Lestrade clear his throat behind him. "Thank you, John," he said. "You may go now."

John glanced at Lestrade as if he were about to say something more, something violent, but he finally turned away and stalked out of the tent without another word or look at his patient.

* * *

Monseigneur watched him go, then settled back on the pillows as if the conversation had drained him completely of his energy. He turned to Lestrade to murmur in Gondalian: _"Extraordinaire."_

Lestrade let out a sigh as he crossed his arms over his chest. "That was rather harsh, don't you think, my lord?" he said, unable to help himself as he answered his master in the same language. "Especially after everything he's done."

Monseigneur was not listening to him. "I was right about him, wasn't I?" he said.

"Yes," Lestrade said. "My lord was right in everything concerning him, in fact."

"You had to wait until I ceased to be coherent to summon him, though. By then it might have been too late."

"I have to admit I had my reservations about him, at first," Lestrade replied firmly. "My lord cannot expect me to trust him right away. He is Angrian, after all, and a soldier. "

"And now?"

"John is a good man. Of that, I am sure now. Enemy or not, he is honorable and will not seek to take advantage of us; otherwise he would have done so when given the first chance. And there were several chances already presented to him."

"Hmm. Enemy, yes," murmured Monseigneur thoughtfully as he mulled at Lestrade's words. "By the way, has there been any development, any word from the King regarding the situation with Angria?"

"We received a dispatch from the King yesterday. There are indications," said Lestrade carefully, "that a full-scale armed conflict may be averted after all. The King is close to an agreement with the Angrian queen."

A corner of Monseigneur's mouth twisted into a smirk. "You mean she's close to giving in to him," he said. "It probably helped a lot that reports have reached her that the Black Wolf has arrived at the front lines. Trust the King to know how to woo the lady."

Lestrade nodded. "That, among other things," he said. "We have heard reports, unconfirmed, that the queen's situation in her own country is precarious. She has remained a widow for too long, with no heir. Even so, she has steadfastly refused to pick a husband from within her realm or beyond. Her allies are, at the best of times, unreliable. She is increasingly having difficulty fending off some of her own nobles from taking on the job of being her consort. Some have been known to express the opinion that it would be so much simpler to overthrow her. There is a hint that an uprising within their ranks is imminent."

"Mycroft has smelled blood in the water then," said Monseigneur. "High time he moves in. The sooner he does so the sooner we can all be away from here."

He paused. "Speaking of the King," he said. "I trust you have not yet mentioned my present condition to him?"

"The sudden fever, yes. Poisoning, no," said Lestrade. "I don't think it would be safe to use that word in our daily dispatches. Until the situation becomes… absolutely necessary."

With great tact, Lestrade let the fateful words remain unsaid: _Only until my lord is really dying…_

"Agreed. Continue to hold your tongue regarding this incident, Lestrade."

"But sir, the culprit—"

"You need not be suspicious of the cook," cut in Monseigneur impatiently. "It had nothing to do with the cook, so you don't have to drag him out to be whipped. The culprit is not here among us."

"And John Watson?"

"Certainly not, though I was interested in seeing his reaction when I made my…accusations."

Lestrade frowned and shook his head in ill-concealed exasperation. If Monseigneur were just another man, or somebody under him, Lestrade would not have hesitated to box his ears and shout, "Just what in Hell's name are you up to?"

But he could not.

"Certainly my lord was jesting when you implied that the King has something to do with this," Lestrade muttered next. "The King is hardly your arch-enemy—"

"Was I, really? Jesting?" Monseigneur cut in, his tone taking on a dangerous softness.

Lestrade's shoulders sagged. "I don't understand, my lord," he said heavily.

"Too true," replied Monseigneur icily. "Which is why you are to do as you're told. Precisely as you're told. As of now, the King shall not be informed of my current state. Except for you, Billy, John Watson and myself, nobody else is to know what has transpired yesterday."

"You have my word that the secret will not part from my lips or Billy's, but what about John Watson?" Lestrade asked. "What is to be done with him? I don't think we can buy his silence. He's not the type who can be bought."

A brief pause, then Monseigneur asked, "What did he ask in return for his services to me?"

"His freedom, nothing more," said Lestrade. "I was expecting he'd throw in a few more requests. Money. Provisions. Horses for himself and his companion and safe passage across the border to Angria, at the very least. I would probably have agreed to all of that, and more. But he did not."

"Unfortunate," Monseigneur murmured.

Lestrade blinked, not sure he understood. "What is, sir?"

"His request to be freed," said Monseigneur, mouth stretching into a smile. "You were rather thoughtless to agree to it. It cannot be granted."

"Why not, my lord?" asked Lestrade, startled.

"It cannot be granted," drawled Monseigneur, his voice deepening a fraction, "because I mean to have him."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The personal and political situation of the Angrian queen is patterned after that of **Mary, Queen of Scots**. The manner of the Gaaldinian King's "rough wooing" of her is reminiscent of Henry VIII's tactics to get Mary's mother to acquiesce to a marriage agreement between the child Mary and Henry's son, the future Edward VI.

Notes about medieval bathing: Although they probably bathed less often compared to the Romans (probably because they lacked the sophisticated plumbing which made Roman baths so popular), people living in medieval times nevertheless liked taking baths (and taking their time with it). Sometimes they would convert the activity into an elaborate social occasion. Bathing parties were not uncommon, and men and women were known to bathe together. On the road, noblemen and affluent people were known to bring their great wooden tubs and bath men with them.

As depicted in period pictures, tubs generally were the size of Japanese soaking tubs or modern hot tubs, holding two or more persons. They are often depicted with canopies and/or drapes. Boards were sometimes placed across the width of the tub to form tables for serving food or playing games while soaking. Bath tools included scrubbers made of bundles of birch twigs or bunches of leaves tied together (Source: Bathing: A History, from gallowglass . org)

More details on medieval bathing practices in future chapters.


	7. Chapter 6

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 6**

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The development of this chapter is in line with comments made by Skeptic7 and Witchy12 at AO3. They raised some good points about John's captivity and the way this issue is or can be handled during medieval times (Skeptic7 asked whether it would have been much simpler for Monseigneur and Lestrade to just propose an employment contract to John). I thought it necessary that this issue is addressed in the story before we get any further, and what follows will certainly shed light on Monseigneur's actions in subsequent chapters. Thank you for your views. I believe they will help strengthen this fic, and I greatly appreciate your feedback. This is my take on the conundrum that is John Watson's captivity. Please see more author's notes at the end.

* * *

"I mean to have him," drawled Monseigneur.

At those words, Lestrade let out a breath as though the wind had been abruptly knocked off his sails.

"My lord," he said, his tone suddenly quiet, cautious. "I am asking you to reconsider your tactics in...acquiring John Watson. Not this way. Not by curtailing his freedom when we do not have any reason to. This is a mistake. Please."

"Oh?" said Monseigneur, coldly. "And how do you propose to have him stay on? Have you got any ideas?"

"By asking him, as a courtesy," said Lestrade. "Should that not be the first thing we ought to do? He may not be an ally now, but he may not remain an enemy for long either. Of his own volition, he may want to stay. Besides, he has been nothing but honorable. We do not treat men of honor this way, as though he were a slave, when he is, in fact, not. We do not treat even our enemies this way. We shouldn't."

Monseigneur did not appear to have heard the rest of Lestrade's words.

_"By asking him!"_ he scoffed, shaking his head as he stared at Lestrade in disbelief. "Have you gone mad? Have you seen the man, Lestrade? As in really seen him? Do you know what he is?"

Lestrade said nothing, but his jaw was set in a grim square.

"He's a Highlander, Lestrade," said Monseigneur, emphasizing the word. "He's not just Angrian, he's an _Angrian Highlander_. You, as a Gaaldinian general, ought to know the implications more than anyone else. Considering they are our closest neighbors, Angrians have had contact with us all throughout history. There are people originally from Angria who have lived in Gaaldine all their lives and even serve in our armies, but all of them, without exception, are from the Lowlands. Need you ask yourself why?"

Lestrade fell silent and looked down at his boots. He could feel a lecture coming on, and there was no stopping Monseigneur once he launched into one of his monologues.

"The Highlanders are almost a race set apart from Angrian Lowlanders. They don't usually mingle," the man continued. "Highlanders keep to themselves up in the northern mountains. They have their own customs, and as you have seen from John Watson, their own system of healing. If Mycroft should ever succeed in winning the Angrian queen over to his side, you ought to ask her what her biggest headache is in terms of governing her people, and without a doubt she will say it is the Highlanders, so notorious for their disobedience.

"These people are not to be trifled with. They come from the poorest regions of Angria, but they are its best and fiercest fighters. That is why Angrian monarchs could not afford to antagonize them, because they are the country's chief defenders. You wonder why brother Mycroft would want to try negotiations with Angria first: it's because he knows we will get a handful of John Watson and his ilk if we go to war with them, and the blood spilled on both sides may not be something he will want staining his hands.

"These people are as proud as Lucifer and deeply attached to the sparse patch of land they call home. They are not easily uprooted. Dangle a bit of money or the promise of a little comfort in their lives, and you will be lucky if they merely spit on your face. These people are wolves, not dogs that you can tame by throwing them a bone or two. I'm deeply surprised that I have to tell you all of this, Lestrade. You ought to know better."

Lestrade was not easily deterred. "With all due respect, my lord, this is precisely the reason why I am recommending a different tactic when it comes to handling John Watson," he argued. "The man clearly values his honor and dignity, as he has every right to be. Take these away from him by forcing him to do anything he doesn't want to do, and no good can possibly come out of it."

"And how shall we make him say yes?" said Monseigneur. "I shall not be refused. Nobody says 'no' to me, not even the King, my brother. Not for long, anyway. And John Watson is not going to be the first man to do so. I have no interest in making any offer to the man when it is obviously going to be turned down."

"But you cannot force him to stay on as your doctor- or for whatever purpose- if he is unwilling," persisted Lestrade with exaggerated patience, as though he were talking to a petulant child denied a favorite toy. "My God, can you not see the danger this man presents? He knows his poisons as well as their remedies. He's the very man who can make life short and painful for you if you should want to proceed in forcing him to stay."

Monseigneur smiled. "Yes, he is capable of that, and probably so much more," he said. "But he won't do it. Not to me."

"Oh?" said Lestrade, eyebrows raised. "And how do we know so much of John Watson that we know what he is capable or incapable of doing?"

"I just...know him," said Monseigneur slowly, pensively. "He won't be able to do it. Otherwise, as he himself has pointed out, he would have plunged his sword into me already during our first encounter. A man of honor will find his hands tied by his high principles, even when facing against his enemy- just as yours are. And I have an idea about him that might further explain this restraint, but it needs to be tested. As of now, there is...insufficient data."

Lestrade's mouth was set into a grim line as he shook his head ominously. "This is folly, my lord," he said. "Dangerously folly."

"Let's make a game of it, shall we?" proposed Monseigneur, a glint of light entering his eyes. "Try to convince him. We can make him stay on for a few days more to handle my recovery. Let's see if you can work your particular charms on a Highlander. Tempt him, persuade him. I shall do the same, in my own way. Let us see who between us will emerge the better tempter."

"My lord-"

"The game is on, Lestrade," said Monseigneur with finality. "Now go find your nephew. I need to speak to him."

* * *

While Monseigneur and Lestrade were deep in their discussion of John Watson, the man himself-accompanied by one of the armed guards outside Monseigneur's tent- was stomping across camp, looking for Billy.

People paused to stare at him and wonder at his heavy, burring accent as he asked whether they had seen the boy. Everyone seemed to know who Billy was, fortunately, and he was pointed to the direction where he had gone.

Billy was, in fact, engaged in his favorite pastime as John finally spotted him in a clearing almost outside the garrison walls. In one hand, he had on a gauntlet, and he was watching the skies. High up above, a bird of prey glided effortlessly in the clear air.

"Ah, John, sir," Billy said, catching sight of John as he approached. He nodded a dismissal at John's armed escort who trailed after him.

"I need my old clothes back," said John shortly, already shedding the coat of grey wool and handing it to Billy. "Where are they?"

"I brought them to the washers," said Billy, eyes wide as he looked at John. "Though to be honest, the washers all think they're better off used as rags. Are your new clothes somehow unsatisfactory, sir? If they are, I can get you-"

"It's not that," growled John. "They're simply not mine. I want mine back."

"You're upset," observed Billy, a note of distress entering his own voice as he took in John's glowering features.

John nodded and said curtly, "Good observation there, yeah."

"I wouldn't be too upset, if I were you," Billy advised earnestly. "Monseigneur always exerts that kind of effect on people whom he meets for the first time. The more important the person is to him, the worse it gets. He'll find a way to test people and get under their skin and see how they'll take it."

John stared at him.

"After his first week of service to Monseigneur, my lord uncle told me he was reduced to begging the King to take him back," Billy continued with a laugh. "And as for me, I cried my eyes out the entire first month when I started serving under him, and that was two years ago."

John looked away and shook his head in disbelief. "How...why would you even want to continue serving him then?" he asked, bewildered.

"He's our Prince, sir," said Billy, his tone carrying no trace of rancor. "Our lord and master. We do not-cannot- take his actions into account the way we do ours. He is above all that."

"Well, thank God he's not _my_ prince," muttered John under his breath.

"I know he may have been harsh. He may have said some things to anger you," Billy said serenely, "but he's also the one who commanded my lord uncle to summon you when he fell ill."

John turned to stare at Billy in surprise.

"Yes, he did," continued Billy. "I was there the entire time. He told my lord uncle, 'fetch our captive healer'-I'm sorry, but we didn't know your name then- 'he will know what to do with me'. That was the reason why you were taken to his bedside. My lord uncle would not have done so, if the decision were his to make alone. So you see..."

John shook his head. _That doesn't mean a goddamned thing_, he told himself firmly. _All it means is that he's scared to death of Anderson's ineptitude, as who wouldn't?_

Before he could say anything else, Billy put two fingers to his mouth and emitted a high whistle.

"Ah, I still can't do it the way Monseigneur does it," said Billy, shaking his head. "She'll never be able to recognize it."

Nevertheless, the bird did descend from the bright blankness of the heavens after flying a graceful arc.

"Azrail," said Billy happily, extending his gauntleted hand up for the young hawk in a touchingly courtly gesture, the way he would offer his arm to a high-born lady. "Good girl."

Azrail descended with flapping wings and very daintily took her perch on Billy's gloved hand. He cooed softly as he tossed a morsel of raw meat for her to catch on her beak.

Despite his own recently ruffled feathers, John leaned in to get a better look at the hawk as Billy made his silly introductions: "John, meet Azrail. Azrail, John Watson."

She was a very pretty thing: the sleek, pale feathers of her breast were barred with black. Her folded wings were grey, tipped with black at the ends. White stripes adorned the sides of her eyes. John watched, charmed, as Azrail cocked her head an angle to give him a look as intensely curious as the one he was giving her through one bright, red-orange eye.

Billy continued, "She's a Northern Goshawk. Very recently just shed her juvenile brown feathers. You should have seen her while she was still a youngster- all tawny and small, with her eyes sewn shut, the poor girl. She didn't have it easy as well from Monseigneur, when he was training her. Yet look at her now. Monseigneur got her as a gift from his uncle, the King of Gondal."

"Azrail," said John. "The name sounds familiar."

"It's the name of the Archangel of Death," supplied Billy helpfully.

"Oh." John raised his brows briefly before lowering them into a heavy frown. _Unsurprising_, he huffed to himself.

Trust the man to resort to drama at every turn: Wolf's Lair. Azrail. John briefly wondered what Monseigneur would call his demonic black horse, the one that had chased him down that green field. And then there was the matter of Monseigneur's name. What could it actually be?

Not, John told himself yet again, that it really meant anything to him.

"If you'd want to catch a glimpse of Monseigneur's soft side, you should be here to watch him hawking," said Billy.

"Oh. He's got a soft side, has he?" asked John offhandedly, watching Azrail reach into her wing to scratch with her beak.

Billy smiled as he eyed Azrail tenderly. "Sometimes he calls her 'mon couer', or 'my heart'," he said.

"Well," said John resentfully, unable to resist digging in once again. "It just goes to show he doesn't have one of those inside his own chest."

He really didn't realize he was so angry. Angry and upset.

And disappointed.

The strange mixture of emotions merely added fuel to the fire, because now he was bewildered at himself for feeling them as well.

He had not really expected any thanks from the man for saving his life, although he had to admit he had felt some satisfaction when he got the diagnosis and treatment right. There was nothing odd about that- It was what doctors and healers lived for. But to be accused of being the cause of the man's malady! The man was a bastard to even suggest it.

He would need to talk to Lestrade and remind him of their agreement. He wanted out-the sooner the better.

Almost as if on cue, the man's voice sounded behind them a few minutes later: "Billy, go and attend to Monseigneur. He needs you."

"Yes, sir." Billy slipped a hood over Azrail's head and nodded politely at John before he moved away.

John turned to stare at Lestrade as the man stood a few feet away from him, hands on his hips, his face rueful.

"John, before anything else, let me just say Monseigneur was really grateful-"

John closed his eyes in irritation and shook his head. "Stop it," he grated. "Stop being his mouthpiece. He's not here anyway so there's no use in voicing this sort of sycophantic rubbish to me."

"You don't understand," said Lestrade patiently. "He's not an ordinary man, he's a Prince. He's-"

"Yes, I know, he's not accountable for his actions. How can a god on earth possibly be held into account by mere mortals?" John began, voice rising. He bit back the rest of his words with great difficulty. Lestrade did not deserve this verbal lashing. He ought to reserve it for the one who did, when they met up again.

"When can I and my companion leave, then?" he asked instead. "I've already done what you asked me to do, and more."

"We were hoping- and Monseigneur asked, specifically-that you can stay on for a few more days, until he's back on his feet," said Lestrade.

John exhaled an explosive breath. "I don't see how I can be of further service to him," he said flatly.

"He trusts you," said Lestrade. "Don't get thrown off by his words. He says things like that but means them very differently deep down inside. He improves on acquaintance, I promise. Well, most times, anyway."

John was having none of it. "The moment he's able to stand," he repeated Lestrade's words, his tone final.

Lestrade nodded.

"John-" Lestrade was having difficulty framing his next words.

John waited, exasperation and impatience etched on his face.

Finally, Lestrade got the words out, "In the event that war is averted, would you consider it if we were to offer you the post of Monseigneur's private physician?"

John stared at Lestrade, not sure he had heard him right. The man's words had effectively robbed him of speech as he struggled to take in the idea. The very idea!

To look at Lestrade, he seemed completely serious. And grim. _Say yes_, said his eyes. _Please._

John finally breathed out an incredulous laugh. "I can't believe this," he muttered.

"Will you?" pressed Lestrade, his voice urgent.

"No," said John, deliberately accentuating the "o" in the word. "War or no war, what I've done for the man may already be considered treason by some of my people. And after what has happened, I find it hard to believe that he would even think to ask me this. Did he put you up to it? Is he actually proposing-"

Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. "Monseigneur has nothing to do with it. The proposal came from me," he said, his voice dull.

_Oh._

"Well, I hope he asks me," said John, very deliberately. "I wouldn't want to miss out on the opportunity of saying 'no' to his royal face."

"Even if it means a handsome, regular income?" said Lestrade. "Lifelong security? You need not be worried about material wants again."

"No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother."

Lestrade sighed. "John, please," he said quietly. "I meant it when I said we would give a lot to have somebody like you in our ranks. If war can be averted, if we can somehow manage to go around this entire conundrum-"

"I'm touched," said John tersely. "I really am. But guess what? We're not actually friends, sir. With no war, our paths are not supposed to cross. If war can be averted, I see no reason why I shouldn't just walk away from here. You'd have no hold over me."

A brief silence as the two men regarded each other.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to hope that the current situation holds out, then," Lestrade said wearily, straightening himself.

Something of his former self threaded its way into his voice as he continued, "As things stand, you're still our captive. My master will do with you as he sees fit. I'd check my tongue in front of him, if I were you, John. You couldn't possibly win over Monseigneur when it comes to trading barbs."

"I'll give him a run for his money," promised John grimly.

Quite unexpectedly, Lestrade smiled. "I'm sure you will," he said. "I'll be sitting back to watch the fireworks, then. It's time I take you back to him. He'll be wondering where you've taken yourself off to."

To look at Lestrade, it would be hard to guess what his thoughts were just then. Nothing pleasant, to be sure, as he thought back on Monseigneur's words and the heaviness of heart that accompanied his realization that Monseigneur had been right about everything, as usual: right about Angrian Highlanders in general, and John Watson in particular.

Most unsettling, how Monseigneur seemed to understand the man perfectly so early into their acquaintance.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Medieval Scotland serves as the model for Angria. As a consequence of its geography, Scotland has two different societies. Mountains stretch from the center of Scotland to the north and west, marking the highlands; the lowlands are situated south and east of the country, rendering them more accessible to the influences of England, situated just down below. People living within these separate societies tended to stay tied to their own social groups. The Scottish kings were engaged in long struggles for power against their nobles, and control of the Highlands was especially difficult due to the forbidding and inaccessible terrain, and the fierce chieftains of local clans who maintained control over their own sections of land. (Source: An Illustrated History of Britain)

In medieval falconry, **Northern Goshawks** were the most prized of all hunting birds. Like most kinds of raptors (birds of prey), these hawks exhibit sexual dimorphism (in which the female is larger than the male), thus, most birds captured for falconry training are female. Most are captured while they are still juveniles, to facilitate ease of training. During medieval times, it was common practice to stitch the eyes of a hunting bird closed to lessen its panic around humans and to control its vision. All throughout its training and falconry career, a hood is slipped onto the bird's head while it is at rest to keep it calm and help acclimatize it to human surroundings.

Some very interesting expressions which originated from falconry terms:

**Haggard**: looking exhausted and unwell, in poor condition; wild or untamed (in falconry, it pertains to a hawk, caught from the wild as an adult and very difficult to train)

**Hawked it up:** Clearing phlegm from the throat (derived from the sound a hawk makes as it expels the indigestible parts of a meal)

**To turn tail**: To turn and run away, as Lestrade did in an earlier chapter (a hawk flying away)

**Wrapped around his/her finger**: to be held tightly under his/her control (derived from the leash of a hawk when secured to the falconer's fist)

Source: Wikipedia


	8. Chapter 7

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 7**

* * *

Please see author's notes at the end.

* * *

Upon Lestrade and John's return, they found the atmosphere in Monseigneur's quarters to be a study in subdued tension. They had arrived at the very moment Monseigneur had finished speaking to Billy. They did not hear his words, just the inflection of his deep voice, edged with something like a reprimand, ebbing away. Then strained silence.

They entered to find Billy standing at the foot of Monseigneur's bed, hands slack on his sides, his face pale and dismayed. He looked frightened. Monseigneur was lying on his pillows, still wrapped in his lethargic weakness, looking up at him. One could not really see the expression on his face— the mask took care to cover that— but if John could make anything out of the sudden silence enveloping prince and page, he would imagine Monseigneur to be frowning.

Lestrade must have sensed the strain as well, for he cleared his throat and began, "Monseigneur—"

"That will be all, Billy," said Monseigneur, not even looking at Lestrade. "For now. You and your lord uncle may go. I shall summon you when I need you. Right now, I want to have a private word with John."

John watched with a sinking heart as uncle and nephew made their exit. He felt Lestrade's eyes on him for a moment, then he was gone. For the first time since those few, stolem minutes the other night, he was left alone with his patient.

Monseigneur motioned to the chair by his bedside with a small flick of his wrist, languidly graceful. "Sit," he said.

John approached the bed slowly and sank down on the offered chair with all the care of a snake charmer kneeling in front of a cobra.

Monseigneur took in his tight, shuttered expression and looked away with a roll of his eyes. "Obviously Lestrade has yet to teach you some proper manners," said Monseigneur. "You have yet to learn to arrange your face in front of me. Not that it really helps."

John dropped the shuttered look and glared openly at him instead.

"You're angry at my jab earlier," Monseigneur said, his voice bored.

John shrugged. "Hardly surprising," he pointed out. "It's not every day that I get accused of being a poisoner; at least, not by one of my own patients."

"You're expecting me to be grateful, then." Monseigneur's cool gaze was back on John.

John shook his head. "No," he murmured, returning Monseigneur's gaze steadily. "I'm not foolish enough to hope for your gratitude."

Monseigneur's eyes narrowed. "But you were expecting something," he said, "and you're disappointed that it was not given to you."

John gave him a look, deceptively mild, even as he felt his heart begin to jump oddly in his chest. "You're putting far too much meaning into things," he said evenly. "The fact is, I don't really care one way or the other."

Monseigneur broke into a smile. "We both know that's not true," he said, his voice low, silky.

John fought to keep his features blank, forced himself to keep breathing normally.

"Why did you agree to heal me, John?" Monseigneur's voice was suddenly soft.

"Because Lestrade and I made a deal. That's all there is to it," said John. "My freedom in exchange for treating you. I believe I've fulfilled my end of the bargain."

"Stay for a few days more," said Monseigneur. "At least until I am fully recovered."

"Why?" asked John, a note of resentment creeping into his voice. "What's the point when we clearly do not trust each other?"

Monseigneur's next words came as a surprise: "Stay. For my pleasure, if nothing else."

He smiled as he watched the brief play of emotions on John's face: disbelief, wariness, incredulity. The man had an easy face to read: open, honest. Pure. He could read John's clean heart in its entirety from that expressive face. Monseigneur watched, amused, as wariness finally won out and John swept back the rest of his feelings to lock them carefully behind his eyes.

"I wanted to gauge your reaction when we spoke earlier," explained Monseigneur. "Anyway, it's immediately clear you're not the culprit."

John frowned. "Oh. So you like going around, raising a hue and cry by making outrageous declarations which are basically unfounded, is that it?" he asked.

"If you have been in my service longer, you will realize that I never do anything unfounded," answered Monseigneur. "And I do it to read people. It's always interesting to see how people react to certain situations. There are valuable things to be learned by looking at gestures— I always find them more eloquent than the spoken word."

John began to shake his head disapprovingly, but realized he could not find anything to say to the arrogant bastard.

Monseigneur gave John's figure a cursory flick. "The clothes become you," he said suddenly, a hint of surprise in his voice.

John looked down at his new attire, his frown deepening. "Well, I'm just waiting for the old ones to dry," he said curtly. "These aren't mine."

"Of course they're yours."

"No, they're not." John's quiet voice was edged with steel.

"You probably may not get your old clothes back," said Monseigneur, his tone unconcerned. "The washers have told Billy they're only fit to be used as rags, and they're probably on their way to being shredded. So, unless you don't mind going around naked, I would suggest you take care of the ones you have on your back right now."

John huffed out a sharp breath— part exasperation, part unwilling laughter— at the image Monseigneur's words had suddenly conveyed.

"At any rate, anyone attending to me as a healer cannot go around in those clothes." A pause. "Notice that I always pertain to you as a healer, never a doctor—"

Hackles immediately raised, John interjected, his tone rude, "I never said I was."

"—as Gaaldinian doctors are hopelessly mired in religion and astrology to render their bodily cures useless at best. I'm sure you have met a classic specimen in the form of our camp doctor, Anderson. I'm certain the title 'killer of princes' would have made a nice addition to the repertoire of titles he is so fond of stringing along after his name, if you were not here to attend to me the other night."

_Oh._

John stared at Monseigneur, eyes round with surprise, mouth still pursed around the stinging retort he was prepared to let fly.

"Savor it," advised Monseigneur dryly. "That's the closest I will come to thanking you."

John continued to gape at the man before him, mystified. _Why on earth can I not pin this man down?_ He wondered. _How does he manage it, his words flying off-tangent at every possible turn, so that one does not know what he's going to say next?_

Monseigneur stared back at him, a small smile tugging at a corner of his lips.

John shook his head as if to clear it. "That day we met in the field," he said. "How did you know I was a healer? I mean, you must have made it out that I was a soldier through my sword, but how—?"

Monseigneur shrugged nonchalantly. "It wasn't much of a mystery," he said. "Your bag. You dropped it when you started running from me. It fell open and the contents spilled out. Who else would think to stuff his bag with tree bark and fungi? Certainly not an ordinary soldier."

The explanation was so simple that John could not suppress a smile. His first real one.

"That," continued Monseigneur, "and your hands."

"My hands?" repeated John dubiously.

Monseigneur stretched out an elegant white hand. "Show me?" he said. "Your dominant hand— the left one, which you used to grip your sword."

John stared at him for a moment more before he slowly, almost reluctantly, stretched out his left hand. He felt Monseigneur's fingers close around it lightly, pulling it closer to him. Mouth suddenly gone dry, he watched as Monseigneur bent down to stare hard at his palm, his fingers; turning his hand over before flipping it back.

"Your skills with the longsword are formidable. You favor it above all other weapons. But you've been a healer for well over ten years—probably starting in your early teens— before you decided to become a soldier," murmured Monseigneur, tracing the lines on John's palm with his thumb.

John could not resist laughing, amazed, all animosity temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. "You can see all of that in my hand?" he said, staring at his own palm quizzically.

"I felt it first before I saw it," said Monseigneur.

John brought his eyes back to Monseigneur. "You…felt it first?" he said. "How could you possibly have? We never really touched when we fought. At least, not with our hands."

Monseigneur shook his head. "Have you forgotten?" he asked softly.

John stiffened in sudden alarm as Monseigneur guided his hand into the open vee of his nightshirt and onto his chest.

_What in bloody hell is he doing...?_

John tried awkwardly to pull away as the alarm bells continued to sound away in his head, but Monseigneur was having none of it. John felt Monseigneur's fingers bite into his wrist, holding the flat of his palm down on the warm skin above the man's heart.

"Here, and here," murmured Monseigneur, his voice thoughtful, as though he were reliving the memory of John's hands on him. He was looking down at the clasped hands as well; if he noticed John's discomfort, he did not show it.

John could feel the texture of the fine, sparse hair on Monseigneur's chest against the rough skin of his hand, feel the warmth of the man's skin underneath his as Monseigneur slid his stiff hand across his chest. "The other night, when I was burning with fever, I felt your hands on me— all over— as you examined me."

John blinked. "Wait," he said, finding his voice at last. "Weren't you delirious then?"

"Not delirious enough to fail in noticing that there are two sets of calluses on your hands," said Monseigneur as he abruptly lifted John's hand back in the air. He pointed them out: "Obviously you don't care very much about wearing gloves most of the time. There is an older set of calluses that told me you spent years regularly pounding and grinding on a mortar. You've got a healer's thumb right here. And yet here—" Monseigneur's fingertips skimmed lightly across John's open hand—"are signs of a more recent and different profession: the calluses of a swordsman as he grips the handle of his sword mainly with his thumb, index and middle fingers. A wide strip of callused skin on the palm here indicates where the handle of your sword comes into contact with your skin as you balance the sword in your hand- the braided cord that covers the handle needs to be replaced for quite some time now, or perhaps you prefer it that rough so as to be able to have a better grip on your weapon. The size and shape of your calluses are consistent with the grip length of a longsword."

John stared at Monseigneur, wide-eyed. He held his breath as he felt those long, white fingers glide over the pads of his index and middle fingers, feeling the hardened skin that was not present on his last two digits. The feel of those fingers was gentle, almost teasing, yet Monseigneur was so serious, absorbed in the task of reading John through his hand. His voice was detached, almost clinical, as he narrated to John the story of his work through his hand.

If John were to read him, what would he say about Monseigneur's hold on him? His grasp was knowing, almost erotic, like the touch of a lover. Yet not intentionally so. Or was it? John found to his growing unease that he could not really penetrate this man as easily as the man had penetrated him.

John swallowed around the sudden lump that had formed in his throat at the thought, and tried to keep the hand that Monseigneur had imprisoned in his from trembling. For some unaccountable reason, he felt his heart racing madly away inside his chest. He said in an attempt at levity, "I didn't know you can read so much in a hand. Perhaps you might want to tell me my fortune next."

Monseigneur answered him with cold hauteur, "I'm no fortune-teller. But I can deduce things about people that may give an indication of their fortunes."

John regarded him with raised eyebrows. "Deduce them?" he asked. "How?"

He had heard of these kinds of people— people who had the gift of second sight, but until now he had never really believed them to be real. Was Monseigneur one of these people? Blessed with a gift that others saw as heaven-sent, while others would brand as a mark of the devil?

"Your arm is breaking out into gooseflesh," Monseigneur noted, his smile widening into a grin.

_Damn!_

"No magic trick," said Monseigneur, letting go of John's hand at last and settling back on his pillows. "I simply observe."

John folded his arms across his chest, his burning hand curling into a tight fist, tucked away from sight. "You observe?" he said.

"Yes. People look but they very seldom _see_. Do you understand the difference, John?"

John opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Monseigneur continued, "You, for instance. A healer and a soldier, clearly adept in both fields— a rare combination of talent. Yet I think it is not lost on you that your talents also offer an uncomfortable paradox that taxes your conscience from time to time: the preserver of life is also the one capable of taking it away, by force if necessary. Something in your past must have made you turn away from being just a healer— something calamitous. Something that fed and grew from a nameless grief you have buried deep inside you— one that has made you turn to war, as though it is through violent conflict that you will be able to find the answer that still evades you. Something is broken deep inside you, John Watson, and you have yet to find the thing that is going to restore you and make you whole again. Your fortune has been undone by a past tragedy. Right now it remains uncertain. Unmade. You have yet to find your quest and your holy grail."

It took a moment for John to realize that Monseigneur had finished speaking. He continued to sit there and stare at the man, his mouth slightly open in shock, his back rigid. The first thought to enter his numb mind was: _Dear God, Sally Donovan was right. This man is a fucking demon…_

When his lips could move again, he whispered a little breathlessly, "Bloody hell…"

Monseigneur smiled, tipped his head forward a little as though John had applauded him. "You might want to tell me now what it was that made you turn to soldiering, John," he said. And just as quickly, he reconsidered: "Never mind. I shall enjoy the challenge of working it out of you, sooner or later."

"How the bloody _fuck_…!" John felt nauseous, as though all of his emotions were lodged somewhere in his gut, broiling up his throat now and threatening to spill out and overwhelm him.

"No tricks, John," reminded Monseigneur.

"Then how…?" John shook his head helplessly.

"All will be explained in due time," murmured Monseigneur.

"Amazing," John muttered, more to himself than for Monseigneur's benefit. "Fucking amazing."

Monseigneur gave him a careful sidelong glance. "You think so?"

"Of course it was," said John, too flabbergasted to bother disguising his reaction.

Monseigneur gave a gentle huff. "That's not what people normally say," he said.

"Really? What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'," said Monseigneur. "Though of course they dare not say it to my face, but one can tell, anyway."

Despite the nasty and unpleasant shock, John could not fully keep the grin back. From somewhere at the back of his mind, a little voice reminded him to back away and pull his animosity towards this man together, but the voice was drowned a second later by Monseigneur's voice, deep and smooth and rich, like red, red wine.

"Watson," murmured Monseigneur speculatively. "It translates as 'powerful warrior', does it not?"

John gave him a look that said he had not known that before about his own surname. In fact, in a single discourse, this man had shown him so many things he had not known before.

"Since you're still waiting for your grand quest in life, my powerful warrior, I thought we might have a little mission of our own to devote our current time and attention to," said Monseigneur.

A moment of speechless surprise. Again.

"What...what mission would this be?" John wanted to know at last.

"I would have thought it was obvious," said Monseigneur. There was no mistaking the gleam of excited interest and anticipation in those pale eyes now. "I just narrowly escaped an attempt on my life. It is imperative that we find out who would want to poison the Prince of Gaaldine."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! I am so glad you guys like the end notes. There are so many interesting period details about the Middle Ages, and I will try to incorporate as much of them as I can in the story.

John's left-handedness is a trait based on Martin Freeman, and also ACD's John (thanks so much to Link for the info!).

The sobriquet, "**Killer of Princes**", is originally ascribed to Dr. Fagon, court physician to France's Louis XIV, for obvious reasons.

The phrase "arrange your face" is from Hilary Mantel's wonderful book, "Wolf Hall".

I based John's sword preference on the websites listed below. Here is a description of his sword:

**Longsword** - a sword meant for use with either one or two hands. Most extant medieval and Renaissance fencing treatises deal with the use of the longsword. The earliest longswords appeared around 1150, and continued to see an increase in use throughout the Middle Ages. A longsword may have either a flat or diamond-cross section blade geometry. Its edges are generally parallel, as opposed to the sharply-tapering _bastard swords_. Sometimes referred to by the more modern name _hand-and-a-half sword_. The term "longsword" is sometimes mistakenly used to refer to an _arming sword_ as a result of misuse by some fantasy novels and role-playing games.

Please send me a message if you would like the links to the website addresses of my references. Ff . net is making it so difficult to post website addresses correctly, probably because they want to weed out spam.

The meaning of the surname "**Watson**" is from surnamedb (reference link is also available upon request)


	9. Chapter 8

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 8**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! It is always so wonderful to hear from all of you. I hope you will enjoy this chapter. The latter part is rated a strong T for some language and scenes.

Please see more author's notes at the end.

* * *

John watched as Monseigneur drank weak ale thirstily from a silver goblet. As with all things, Monseigneur could transform a mundane action such as drinking into an elegant spectacle. From those long, white fingers clasped lightly, precisely, around the finely made chalice to the long, graceful arch of his throat as Monseigneur downed the ale in long, deep pulls. John's mouth thinned without his being aware of it as he watched Monseigneur's tongue appear to lick at a drop of liquid that had gathered at the corner of his mouth. He glanced away at the last moment, aware that he was staring. Damn the man for not being easy on anything except, perhaps, the eyes.

Despite his raw, lacerated feelings after Monseigneur had read his entire person so thoroughly just minutes before, John could not help but feel a certain kind of fascination toward the man take root.

"Am I supposed to be this thirsty?" Monseigneur asked, a frown in his voice, as he lowered the empty goblet to cradle in his hands. "I've been drinking like a fish since I woke up."

John shrugged. "You didn't drink much yesterday," he said. "All you really had was the medicine."

Monseigneur placed the goblet on a small table within reach and shifted onto his side languorously, the better to face John. He tilted his head towards John a little helplessly and asked, "How did you make me drink the medicine yesterday?"

John could not help the small snort of incredulous laughter. "You remember the feel of my hands," he said, his tone dubious, "but you don't remember how I gave you the medicine?"

To look at Monseigneur, one could almost believe that he really did not remember. "Pity," he murmured. "You must refresh my memory the next time I need to take it."

A sharp bark of laughter from John this time. The wry look he aimed at Monseigneur said it all: _You can keep on dreaming__._

God, was he getting this right? Could it actually be possible that this man was _flirting_ with him?

Amusing as it was, John suddenly felt as though he were swimming in strange waters. Strange and unsafe.

He cleared his throat, moving the conversation back to dry, familiar land, putting it back on track before Monseigneur interrupted to say he was thirsty and wanted something to drink.

"How are you going to go about tracking down the poisoner?" asked John.

"There will be time to devise a strategy," said Monseigneur. "Right now, though, information regulation is vital. Nobody should know the nature of my illness, or how I got better."

"You said the poisoner is not here in the garrison," said John. "If he's not here, how did he get to you?"

"Ah, there lies the mystery, doesn't it?" asked Monseigneur, smiling. "So many questions, the answers to some of which elude me for the time being as well."

"You think the poison wasn't slipped into your food and drink," John pressed on. "How then?"

"Do you know, John," said Monseigneur conversationally, "that deadly Nightshade was used by some peoples from far-away shores, long ago, as a poison to tip their arrows?"

"Wait..." Monseigneur could almost hear the gears moving in John's brain. "You mean to tell me that you think you got it through that wound? You have a wound on your arm. I saw it yesterday when I examined you."

"That's one of many possibilities, don't you think?" said Monseigneur.

"But your wound is already several days old. Don't you think you should have come down with the symptoms much earlier?"

"There are things that do not fit the puzzle," admitted Monseigneur. "Which adds to the allure of the mystery greatly, wouldn't you agree? Just as you have said that the symptoms were not a complete match to the diagnosis of classic Nightshade poisoning. Which means...?"

He trailed off expectantly, and John was forced to concentrate on coming up with the correct answer. "You think the poison is a composite-made of several kinds of poisons, not just one."

"And the very real possibility that its effects can be delayed for a few days, making the job of tracing it back to the poisoner so much more difficult," finished Monseigneur. "Novel."

John frowned at the tone of admiration, almost reverent, that Monseigneur used to frame his last word.

He stared into Monseigneur's eyes. "You're not afraid?" he asked. "You almost died. I mean, somebody else in your place would have been horrified at the thought of being poisoned."

"But I didn't die, that's the point, surely," argued Monseigneur. "And if I did..."

He shrugged, as if to say if he had indeed died, then he was dead and there was nothing more to be said about it. For some reason, John was piqued at his nonchalance- the coldness of his precise logic, even his courage.

"And it did not occur to you that Lestrade and just about the entire garrison were worried and scared to death for you?" prodded John.

"They weren't afraid for me," Monseigneur corrected him gently. "They were worried about their own necks."

"That's hardly true," said John, some heat entering his words at last. "Lestrade and Billy were most concerned-"

"And you, as well," interjected Monseigneur.

"-about you. You can tell they weren't faking it, and it's not just because..._what?"_

"You," said Monseigneur. "You were concerned about me, too, weren't you?"

Monseigneur watched, amused, as John suddenly drew back into himself, like a snail into its shell. "You're my patient," he said cautiously. "Of course I have to be concerned. And anyway, I'm not sure if you were too delirious to overhear Lestrade yesterday, but he basically promised he'd kill me if you died. So you see just what sort of inducement I was under to ensure that you get well."

"And you liked it that I am. Getting well," said Monseigneur. "You loved the rush of adrenaline when you finally got the correct diagnosis and treatment in my case. You get off on it, don't you?"

"That's natural, I think," John answered. He might as well have added: _While your coldblooded reaction to your own possible demise isn't._

"Would it help at all if I were to panic at the realization that I was poisoned?" asked Monseigneur quite reasonably.

"Well, no," said John. "But-"

Here, he broke off.

But what, exactly? Would it help a little for Monseigneur to show that he was, at least, human? If so, for whose benefit?

"I didn't ask to be poisoned, John, nor did I poison myself, if that's what you're thinking," replied Monseigneur quietly.

John shook his head. "Of course not," he said.

"At any rate, if the poison were indeed introduced into my body through that wound," said Monseigneur, his tone almost gleeful, "then my would-be murderer is within the royal court circles of Gaaldine."

John stared at him. "You think it's one of your own, then?" he said.

"Highly likely," said Monseigneur. "It wasn't very clear how I got that wound, John. I was in several jousting matches that day and I did not feel a thing until Billy and I noticed it later that night when I was preparing for my bath."

"Oh." John leaned back in his seat. This was most interesting indeed.

Monseigneur smiled at his rapt audience. "So John, have I gotten you interested in our quest yet?"

John paused, considering Monseigneur's words. "I don't know how I can really be of any help to you," he said at last, his tone suddenly careful. "I mean, I promised Lestrade I'd only stay until you recover."

The effect of those words was unfortunate. John watched as a shadow settled over Monseigneur's eyes.

"You'd choose to go back to Angria rather than pursue our quest?" the question was delivered in a flat, still voice.

"Well, technically it's not 'our' quest," said John, not backing down from the sudden change he detected in Monseigneur, "as I have not agreed to participate in it yet."

"And if I say you're in, regardless of your own considerations?" Monseigneur's voice was carefully devoid of all expression, as were his eyes.

"You can't make me," John said.

"Watch me," Monseigneur growled.

_Here at last_, thought John. _A glimpse of his true nature revealed under all that artificial sweet talk._

Monseigneur's eyes, John noticed, had the color of the stormy sea in winter when he was angry. Fascinating.

The impasse was broken when Lestrade stepped in, murmuring his apologies. For a brief moment, John thought Monseigneur was going to shout at him.

"What is it?" snapped Monseigneur instead, his voice clipped.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, sir," said Lestrade. "The daily dispatches. Most urgent. The King..."

He trailed off, his eloquent gaze on John.

"Well, off I go then," said John, bounding up, glad to be going. "I thought I might check in to see to my companion's wound. That is, of course..."

Monseigneur nodded curtly, not even looking at him.

Dismissed.

"I'll have Billy accompany you," Lestrade said to John.

As soon as John was gone, Lestrade turned back to Monseigneur.

"He is very stubborn," Monseigneur would only say.

"Yes."

_No success with John, then._

Lestrade did not know whether he should be glad or be exasperated with the man's hardheadedness. At any rate, it boded no good to defy Monseigneur's wishes, because that only meant that he would give chase all the harder.

Lestrade gave a circumspect cough when the mulish silence threatened to stretch on, then handed over the King's communications.

Monseigneur swore softly when he read the messages enclosed.

"There isn't going to be a war then," said Lestrade, relieved, "but a wedding. A royal wedding."

"Just what we need right now," muttered Monseigneur, tossing the papers away. "John is not to know, at least for the time being."

"I doubt if we can keep the news, even from him, for long," said Lestrade dryly. "We no longer have any legitimate hold on him."

"Yes, we do," said Monseigneur. "We must exert more effort, Lestrade, to get him to stay, or I shall have to resort to drastic methods."

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest, and said, "My lord was right: material incentives mean nothing to John Watson."

"Then we shall have to play on other...incentives," drawled Monseigneur. "I'm not done with John Watson yet. Not by a long shot."

Lestrade raised his brows at Monseigneur's words. _Just what the hell is he up to now?_

"I'll need to take a bath," said Monseigneur shortly.

* * *

John was led to Alec's tent by a morose and taciturn Billy.

_Clearly, Monseigneur has a way about him with people under his influence_, thought John as he regarded Billy's miserable countenance. _Best to be away, and soon._

Alec's face lit up with relief and gladness when he saw John framed by the opening of the tent, his medicine bag slung over one shoulder. A second later, Alec's face was filled with dismay as he took in John's appearance.

"Mother of God," he said, taking in John's cropped hair, the sudden absence of his beard stubble, his clothes. "What have they done to you?"

John shook his head, closing his eyes. "Long story, Alec," he said, laying down the medicine bag beside him and moving to untie Alec's bandages.

His wound was healing very well. John took his time in cleaning it and making new medicine to apply on the wound.

Alec tried again in a low voice, in Angrian this time: "What did they do to you?"

"Nothing that cannot be borne," muttered John in the same language. "But I expect they will be setting us free soon. They'll have to."

"Sir." Billy, a few feet away, must have heard their whispers.

"It's fine, Billy," said John. "We're not talking about running away."

He sifted through the contents of his bag and took out the ingredients he needed for Alec's wound. Tangled in the dark tree bark and ears of fungi was a single white flower. John gazed at the little white star for a moment, thinking it had strayed from the cluster he had used to make Monseigneur's medicine last night, and placed it on a piece of clean bandage linen which he tucked into his pocket.

After he had seen to Alec's wound, he stayed for a while, making desultory small talk understandable by Billy. Had Alec been treated well? Had he been given enough to eat? Was he warm enough at night? He was not permitted to tell Alec what he had been doing, and he thought it wise not to tell him. Alec would misunderstand. Already he was forming conclusions of his own. John could feel Alec's eyes on his clothes and wondered what he might be thinking, deep down inside.

In the end, Billy cleared his throat, signaling the end of their session.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," John said to Alec, packing up his things.

He found that he did not want to return to Monseigneur's side just then, and lingered for a few minutes in the open air with Billy.

"What is it?" said John, peering at Billy's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sir," said Billy.

"Of course there is, with a face like that," said John tersely.

Billy shook his head. "It's nothing, sir," he said heavily. "I was...it was my fault. I failed to obey his orders. Monseigneur was right to be angry with me."

"Was he severe with you?" John wanted to know. One could tell a lot about a man by the way he treated his servants.

Billy looked shocked. "Oh, no, sir," he said. "Monseigneur, he's...he doesn't shout when he's mad. Not really. Though sometimes you wish he would just do so."

"He's a bit of a puzzle, isn't he?" John asked.

_Yet despite __everything__, he has such loyal followers_, thought John. _Billy truly loves him, and so does Lestrade, in his own way. How does he do it?_

Billy opened his mouth, and said quite unexpectedly, "Must you really leave us after Monseigneur is better, sir?"

John regarded him with raised brows. _Where did that come from?_

Billy was gazing at him helplessly. "I mean, why can't you just stay?" he said unhappily. "Surely we can all be friends in due time. Who is to say you will not be happy among us? Just give us a chance."

"It's not as easy as that, Billy," said John softly. "This isn't my home, and I have no wish to be far from home. You will not understand it now, but you will when you're older."

Billy looked infinitely sad. "Sir..."

"Yes?"

Billy looked as though he were about to say something but changed his mind at the last minute. "Nothing," he said. "Sorry, sir."

* * *

John was gone perhaps thirty minutes, certainly no more than that, but when he and Billy returned to Monseigneur's quarters, he was met with the surprising sight of a steaming bath being drawn for Monseigneur, in the middle of the tent.

The table and other furniture had been moved aside, and the huge wooden tub laid out at the center was being prepared by a bath man. The fragrant scent of sage and rosemary drifted from the steaming waters.

Monseigneur himself was sitting up on his bed, wrapped in a long, linen sheet and talking to Lestrade, standing a few feet away, in sober tones. He turned just as John entered.

"Ah, John," Monsiegneur said. "I meant to ask whether it's all right for me to take a bath? I positively _reek_ from all that sweating yesterday."

John's turned his astonished face from the direction of the bath to Monseigneur. "I don't see how my view of things will change anything now," he said slowly.

"Exactly," said Monseigneur, his tone crisp. "And anyway, I thought a bath would help revitalize me faster than lying around in bed all day long."

"Sir," said the bath man.

"Ah, ready then, are we?" asked Monseigneur.

He stood up slowly, his movements still languid, and let the sheet fall from him as he carefully took the few steps necessary to reach the tub.

All the while, he was talking to John, his gaze pinned disconcertingly on him: "Wouldn't you agree that bathing would be ideal in my situation, John? It comes highly recommended among Gaaldinians- a cure for almost any ailment, as many would claim."

But John was not listening. It seemed as though his brain had tuned out his sense of hearing to favor the use of his sense of sight, overloaded as it was just then with the image of a naked Monseigneur standing a few feet away from him.

Naked as the day he was born.

Except for that black mask, still shielding his face from view.

It was that damned mask, more than anything, that seemed to have made John's brain freeze up and refuse to function in any higher capacity other than sight.

The way he looked, Monseigneur may as well have been carved out of pale, high-grade marble. Beautiful beyond words, the way the muscles shifted under his skin when he moved. The long lines of his arms, his legs. His body was perfectly proportioned, right down to his cock, long and slender as the rest of him, nestled in its flaring, dark bush between his legs. Nothing lewd about it at all. John had one of those himself, and he had seen this man naked before, of course he had.

What was lewd was the mask (velvet, by the feel of it last night), shielding the man's face and making his thoughts and feelings impossible to read. Monseigneur had it on last night as well, when John was examining him, but at the time, John had been too preoccupied to form a comprehensive image of his patient. Last night had been all about separate body parts as he went over each minutely: Monseigneur's head, his neck. Chest. Arms. Back. Genitals. Legs. Feet.

Standing here in front of him now, John felt-oddly enough-that he was the one naked and exposed to the elements as he looked at Monseigneur in full for the first time. He took in everything about the man except the one thing that was usually offered up first-his face. The man had bared himself to John and yet kept the most important part of himself locked away from him. John did not know why it should be so, but to his mortification, he found this strange reversal of the usual order of things profoundly arousing and stirring.

All the while, Monseigneur carried on talking, talking, and all the while, his gaze was fixed on John, taking in every bit of John's reaction as John silently took him in. And there was a light there, behind those pale eyes, that told John that something very interesting had just occurred to Monseigneur.

_Look at me, John, _Monseigneur's gaze said.

Too late, John realized that Monseigneur had been able to read him again in those few, critical seconds before he could bring his guard up. Too late, he realized that Monseigneur had brought this all about by careful design just to test him.

_Arrange your face!_

It was all a few seconds too late, but John had to do it to preserve a measure of his dignity.

Luckily, Lestrade and Billy did not seem to have noticed anything awry. They stood a few feet away, their eyes on Monseigneur (and oh, how different John's gaze must have been compared to theirs!) as he lowered himself into the steaming, fragrant bath.

"Ah," sighed Monseigneur in sheer enjoyment as he sank into the sage and rosemary-flavored waters. "I feel so much better already."

He continued his discussion from his comfortable position in the water, the back of his head pillowed by a sponge on the side of the tub: "I was just telling Lestrade about our potential list of suspects, which would encompass just about everyone he knows in our little society."

Lestrade looked slightly discomfited, but did not comment.

Monseigneur was asking Lestrade: "What does everyone in the camp think of my illness?"

"A fever, nothing else, my lord," answered Lestrade.

"Good. Let's keep the story that way," said Monseigneur. "I am feeling much better. I shall have supper with the soldiers later."

There was more talk, but it barely registered to John. He felt oddly light-headed, like a thing caught in the invisible silk of an orb weaver- disorientated, confused, realizing too late he had just landed on an intricately designed web of a carnivorous predator. Dazed, all John could think of, after seeing Monseigneur purposefully undressed in front of him, was this: _Leave. I must leave as soon as possible. Stay a day longer and this demon will have me, body and soul._

* * *

**More author's notes**: Bathing during medieval times made use of a variety of herbs as bath additives, such as hollyhock, St. John's wort, brown fennel, thyme, oregano (recommended for some skin ailments), sage, rosemary ('Seethe much Rosemary, and bathe therein to make thee lusty, lively, joyfull, likeing and youngly.'), among others. Modern favorites, such as lavender, have been in use since Roman times. (Reference: A Short History of Bathing since 1601)


	10. Chapter 9

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 9**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, as always! They never fail to please and inspire. Please see more author's notes at the end.

* * *

Monseigneur's long, leisurely bath gave John some time to recover his composure. After a while, he managed to successfully quell the irrational panic building deep inside him, and he found that it was quite possible to look at the man without cringing whenever he was addressed. Now, face carefully arranged into neutral lines, he watched as Billy helped Monseigneur into his clothes- his vestments, upon which he may proclaim to the world his rank and stature as Prince of a realm. His body armor of authority.

John watched with forced calm as Monseigneur's pale flesh was gradually swallowed up and encased in a luxurious carapace. If anything, this exerted a pull over John the same way as the sight of Monseigneuer, standing naked in front of him, did.

Like the man himself, Monseigneur's clothes were anything but simple, yet they gave off an aura of subdued stylishness, beginning with the black undershirt made of sumptuous silk. Then, a form-fitting middle garment that accentuated the lean hardness of Monsiegneur's torso — a gipon, deep aubergine in color, with long, tight sleeves. Over the gipon went the knee-length outer garment called a cote-hardie.

John was not familiar with this kind of extravagant fashion-layer after layer of such beautiful fabric, each covering the other so that one may only see a few, tantalizing inches of further riches that lay beneath. The ubiquitous woolen tunics with their loose folds worn over homespun and, occasionally, linen— which would already be quite a splurge on his part— had been part of John's daily attire for as long as he could remember, and he had never thought to give his clothes more consideration than they merited so long as they served their purpose of keeping him dry and warm. Thus, what he was seeing now seemed unreal, as remote from his ordinary life as the moon was from the earth.

There was nothing loose about Monseigneur's garments at all from the waist up- the cote-hardie had a low neck, and complex sleeves with edges embroidered in silver thread that extended to the elbow in front and hung in tapered and elongated flaps at the back, exposing the gipon's purple sleeves beneath them. The sober black of the cote-hardie was relieved by a row of tiny, silver buttons up front. It molded to Monseigneur's form and set it to perfection, highlighting his broad shoulders and trim waist, his long neck. Below the waist, Monseigneur's garment flared into a full skirt reaching to his knees, open at the front from which one could see black breeches so tight that they molded to his calves and legs like stockings, or a second skin. Dark leather boots on his feet and a black cape slung with artful carelessness over his shoulders and fastened in place with a silver brooch completed the picture of delectable elegance.

And of course, there was the mask.

That damned mask covering his face, looking slightly filthy with erotic mystery. As if Monseigneur wore it deliberately to mock John and expose his weakness for everything that it signified: an irresistible secret and a provocative tease, all wrapped around the person of this man.

Done with dressing up, Monseigneur turned his head to flick a glance at John's direction, as if to make sure he was watching. John sighed as something inside him grimly acknowledged that he was losing this fight. There was no denying it. He was deeply fascinated by the enigma that was this man. With the sense of impending defeat came exasperated confusion.

Sweet Jesus, what was the matter with him, to be so affected by the sight of this man, dressed or undressed? It did not bear contemplation. It was just...he had never realized that dressing up could be such an absorbing task. A ritual far removed from the drab and mundane idea of clothes being only one of life's bare necessities. It was quite a revelation to see dressing as an art form in itself— the results could be lavish, supremely pleasing to the eye as well as being perfectly sound in function, if one had the right clothes. Gradually, John was awakening to the realization that Monseigneur could take a dull, everyday task and transform it into something interesting and new. Something more than usual. Special.

A disturbing realization, made all the more disturbing by John's suspicion that Monseigneur had planned it this way, just as he had planned that goddamned bath and his nakedness, with the idea of having John as witness, whether he liked it or not.

Monseigneur was showing off. Just for him.

John could feel goosebumps breaking out on his skin at the very idea.

_Of course it's not for you_, he snapped at himself, irritated. It was a stupid thought. Never in his life had he thought himself self-centered, that everything revolved around him. Certainly, that was Monseigneur's idea of himself, but not him. Not John Watson!

_He's doing this for his soldiers_, thought John, watching Monseigneur's every graceful move around the quarters as he continued to discuss some business with Lestrade. _To let them know that everything's back to normal, that he's alright. He must stop the rumors before they get out of hand._

Monseigneur and Lestrade were having supper out. John was going to stay in with Billy.

The quarters were suddenly empty and strangely peaceful as soon as Monseigneur stepped out, and Billy was keeping his silence, not even so much as looking at John unless John was directly addressing him. John stared at him for a while, wondering yet again what could possibly be wrong with him, what Monseigneur might have said to him to upset him so. Did it have anything to do with him? Perhaps Monsigneur thought Billy was being too friendly with somebody he ought to regard as their captive? In the end though, John decided that Billy would impart the information himself when he was ready.

They had an early supper of mutton and onions cooked in beer, and afterwards, Billy brought out some books just to prolong their state of non-communication. The books were Monseigneur's, beautifully bound and ranging in subject from falconry to discourses that were entirely unfamiliar to John. Most of the volumes were also in Gondalian— that slippery, sliding language that John could barely make out by hearing, let alone by reading.

For a while, John contented himself with staring at the pictures in the books, very few and far in between, before giving up. He made a slow circuit about the quarters, taking in Monseigneur's things that had barely registered with him during the hectic hours of Monseigneur's illness.

There were more books and papers. Strange instruments of a kind John had never seen before. Monseigneur's swords and weapons. His armor. John stared at his sword and remembered the way it had gleamed in the rain, just the other day.

Just the other day, when he had barely known Monseigneur.

And now…

What was to become of him now, in the hands of this man? God help him.

He eyed the flap of the tent surreptitiously. He could make a run for it, if he really wanted, to hell with all the consequences.

But he couldn't, his primary reason being Alec.

He refused to consider the other, terrifying idea that perhaps now, it was quite possible that he wouldn't. With or without Alec.

* * *

The supper with the soldiers did not take long— only two hours, at most.

Monseigneur returned with a swirl of dark silks, instantly setting off a flurry of activity inside the tent. Clearly, he was fatigued from his little excursion, his temper short and frayed at the edges. He was wearing Lestrade down with more instructions for an endless list of duties around the garrison.

A few minutes of this scene and John arrived at a decision. Quietly, he stood up and, slinging his medicine bag over his shoulder, asked leave to make more medicine.

"Whatever for?" snapped Monseigneur.

"You're still not fully well," said John, the very embodiment of reason. "Off to bed with you."

He departed with Billy at his heels, not bothering to take in Monseigneur's reaction.

For this particular draught, to be taken at bedtime, John decided that adding some of the mushrooms he had found in the forest with Sally should do the trick.

* * *

Monseigneur had undressed and indeed crawled into bed by the time John and Billy returned. There was no stopping his mouth though, as he continued his verbal onslaught. Lestrade bore it all with resigned patience.

"What's this?" asked Monseigneur, breaking off from his tirade and eyeing the cup that John was holding out to him suspiciously.

"It's your medicine, what do you think?" murmured John. "I'm not waiting until you have a relapse, what with you getting out of bed so soon."

"I'm not taking it unless you do," said Monseigneur, casting John a sly look from the corner of his eye.

John sighed. "Fine," he said, raising the cup to his lips and taking a mouthful of the bitter fluid before handing the cup over to him.

Monseigneur's face screwed into a look of disgust as he took his first sip. "You've been feeding me this last night?" he asked John.

"Force-feeding," corrected John. "The entire cup now, please."

"No. Two more swallows and that's it," said Monseigneur shortly.

John shook his head but said nothing.

Lestrade, taking advantage of the momentary lull in Monseigneur's speech as he drank his medicine, launched into reports of his own, only to pause a few minutes later as Monseigneur yawned.

Lestrade cleared his throat, and continued, "We will need my lord's signature on the papers by tomorrow, and..."

"Fine." Monseigneur yawned again.

He turned abruptly to John, pale eyes alight with sudden and complete comprehension. "That was rather clever, John," he said, voice already slurring. "I didn't know you have it in you. Just wait until tomorrow, as soon as I...I..."

John raised his brows at Monseigneur's heavy-lidded glare, not at all daunted by the man's words. He watched as Monseigneur finally closed his eyes and breathed out a deep sigh.

He was asleep within minutes.

"What did you put in his medicine?" Lestrade demanded, coming over to look closely at Monseigneur as he lay on his pillows, mouth slightly parted as he breathed quietly, rhythmically in deep sleep.

"A few mushrooms to take away melancholia and aggressive behavior in some people," said John, shrugging, already yawning himself. "He'll feel all better tomorrow, and I thought we can all use some rest ourselves for tonight."

Lestrade could not hide his grin.

* * *

John wasn't sure if it was the effect of the mushrooms, but that night he dreamt of Mary.

His Mary.

They were walking along the edge of the woods near home, hand in hand. A slow, leisurely stroll that John never wanted to end. They didn't say anything, but then they didn't need to. The light from the afternoon sun caught in Mary's golden hair, on her smiling face.

Gladness suffused John's heart- that incredulous joy unique in dreams when we see a loved one long lost suddenly restored to us.

But John should have known it was all too good to be true. By the end of the trail, John could feel Mary's hand slipping away from his grip.

"No. Don't go," John gasped, realizing what was happening. What always happened in the end when he dreamt of her. Reflexively, he tightened his hold over her, but her hand was suddenly like air, passing through the solid flesh of his closed fist and fading into nothing.

Because that was what Mary was.

A ghost.

* * *

John woke up gasping, felt the familiar pain lashing at his heart. Five years- an eternity, and the pain was still fresh-a living wound-deep inside him.

A moment of disorientation before John finally remembered where he was. He bolted upright to sit up from his sleeping mattress on the floor, the blankets strewn about him.

Monseigneur's bed was empty.

"He said he's feeling so much better so he's gone to tend to Azrail. He says to let you sleep on, but you may go to him when you're ready. He says he wants to show you something," said Billy, who was preparing John's breakfast on the table. To answer the look on John's face, he continued, "Last night has been the longest I've seen Monseigneur asleep."

Curbing his curiosity, John silently got dressed and ate his breakfast. Stepping out with Billy, he found the open air crisp and bright with early morning sunlight. A welcome respite from the stifling confines of the tent.

The garrison hummed with activity all around them. John turned his head to stare as a tent was being dismantled as they passed. He glanced at Billy, but Billy was keeping his eyes resolutely on the path before them.

They found Monseigneur standing at a small clearing almost outside the garrison, the same location Billy had picked yesterday as he let Azrail out for some air. Today he had on a dark, fur-lined cloak, gauntlet covering his right hand and forearm. Like Billy yesterday, his face was turned toward the heavens, scanning it for a sign of Azrail.

Lestrade stood a few feet away. "John," he said, nodding, as John and Billy joined them.

"Well, well. Up at last, I see," drawled Monseigneur without turning his head, though John thought he heard a smile tucked into his voice. "Feeling very satisfied with yourself over that stunt you pulled last night, I suppose, John. Very clever, I must admit. Is that your way of telling me to shut up?"

"You're welcome," said John briefly.

This time, Monseigneur did turn around, a smirk on his lips. "Saucy, aren't we," he said. "I'm not taking any of your medicine ever again."

John was unperturbed by Monseigneur's words. He crossed his arms over his chest and said, "Admit it, you had a restful night, and you feel restored enough this morning to come out for some air. I will only repeat what I said: you're welcome. So, can I go back to my life now, please?"

"So, you've noticed," said Monseigneur.

"Yes."

John was a soldier, after all. He had noticed the garrison in the initial process of dismantling, and Monseigneur's instructions to Lestrade last night were suddenly making sense.

A moment more and something seemed to click in John's brain. "You...this is what you wanted me to see, by making me come here," he said.

"Yes," replied Monseigneur. "I thought we'd better have this conversation now. What possible use would it do us by delaying it?"

"What conversation?"

"Your fate, of course, John."

"Lestrade and I had a deal," John said, glancing at Lestrade as he stood, tense, a few feet away. "He gave me his word-"

"Most unfortunate," cut in Monseigneur. "His word is his, and his alone. It's not mine."

"You're not letting me go, then."

"Of course not."

"Why the _hell_ not?"

"Because you're my antidote, John," said Monseigneur impatiently. "I can't have you going away when I need you here with me to solve an important case. My case."

"I've done all I can to help you," said John. "Any more and I shall-"

"Yes? You shall what?" said Monseigneur. "You shall be committing treason by helping the enemy? Look around you John, and think! Why are we decamping? We're not going to war, John, we're getting married!"

At John's open-mouthed look of incomprehension, Monseigneur clarified, "Well. At least, your queen is getting married. To my brother."

_"What?"_

"She finally gave in, John," said Lestrade from behind. "To avoid any bloodshed. She finally decided enough was enough."

"We received the happy news yesterday," said Billy. "We're going home."

"Right," said John, looking at them dubiously. "Farewell, then."

"You're coming with us," said Monseigneur, his voice flat. "I'm taking you home, John."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," said John, turning around and moving past Lestrade.

"Seize him," said Monseigneur, his voice cold.

John drew his arm roughly away from Lestrade's restraining hand and turned back to Monseigneur. "Give me one good reason why I should stay," he ground out.

"All right then," said Monseigneur, obligingly. "You can't leave, John, because you've seen my face."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: As with every period in history, a person's clothes during medieval times marked his status in society. In addition, the Sumptuary Laws during those times were implemented to "ensure that a specific class structure was maintained." These laws served to regulate the dress code of various classes by imposing rules on expenditures incurred for making clothes, depending on one's position in the social strata. Monseigneur's choice of clothes is lifted from fourteenth century (A.D. 1300-1400) fashions for Englishmen. (Sources: Wikipedia-English medieval clothing; and Gothic Review).

The mushrooms used by John in this fic are based on **Psilocybin mushrooms, **commonly called **shrooms** and **magic mushrooms. **Several genera of mushrooms fit this category, all of them containing psychoactive indole alkaloids which can induce psychedelic and antidepressant effects, as well as a sense of spiritual well-being (the strong narcoleptic effects of the mushrooms as I have depicted in this chapter are mainly my invention, although there are claims that yawning and sleepiness are indeed an after effect of taking shrooms). They have been used since pre-historic times, and many cultures used them in religious rites. Currently, they are used as a recreational drug, and there are reports claiming their efficacy in treating obsessive compulsive disorders (OCDs). Source: Wikipedia.

The phrase, "slightly filthy with erotic mystery" is lifted from the poem **"Dreamers"** by **Ted Hughes** (from his collection of poems, **Birthday Letters**). I found the following lines also (very aptly) reflect John and Monseigneur's relationship at this stage:

_She sat there_

_Slightly filthy with erotic mystery._

_I saw the dreamer in her_

_Had fallen in love with me and she did not know it._

_That moment the dreamer in me_

_Fell in love with her, and I soon knew it._


	11. Chapter 10

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 10**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Advanced Merry Christmas! Thank you so much for all your wonderful feedback. You guys always make it feel like it's Christmas whenever I hear from you. I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Just a brief warning to say the drama will be pretty heavy midway through it. Please see more author's notes at the end.

* * *

"You can't leave, John," said Monseigneur, "because you've seen my face."

Lestrade turned sharply to look at John, eyes wide, startled.

A white, surprised silence as John stared at Monseigneur, dumbfounded. Of all the things he was expecting from the man, he had not expected this.

_But of course, John_, Monseigneur's gaze said.

Of course, John should have known that the man would know. At the time, he had been delirious, but then, if he had remembered the feel of John's hands on him, how on earth would he have missed this?

Still—

_Lie, goddammit!_ A part of his mind yelled at him, but too late. Everything that needed knowing was written in volumes in those few, stark seconds of nothing. And on John's face.

Too late, John opened his mouth to deny it all, but Lestrade was already saying in a horrified voice, "No, no, John, _no…!"_

Lestrade was upon him instantly, hands closing like a vice on his shoulders, shaking him hard. "John, you bloody idiot! Didn't I say you can't look at Monseigneur's face? Didn't I tell you it's for your own sake? _Why?_ Why did you do it?!"

For another moment, John could only stare at Lestrade, mouth open and no words coming out. _Fucking hell, John, why can't you just fucking lie?_

Finally: "I…I only meant to wipe his face." Even as he said it, John could feel himself doing a mental eye roll. _Is that really the best you can do?_

Monseigneur voiced his thoughts for him: "Pathetic. The next thing he'll be saying is he doesn't know what he's done, exactly."

"Idiot!" repeated Lestrade, thrusting John away savagely. He turned to Billy and roared, "How is this possible? I _told_ you not to let him out of your sight for a single moment!"

Billy was white as a sheet, and like John, his voice was quite gone.

"Too late now," murmured Monseigneur.

John watched, fury gradually taking hold of him, as a corner of Monsiegneur's mouth tilted up in a triumphant smirk.

"So I've seen your face," John said defiantly, shrugging. "So what? It's not the end of the world."

"Oh, but it is, in a way, John," said Monseigneur conversationally. "Lestrade, tell him what the penalty is for a commoner to peer into the masked faces of royalty, uninvited."

"Death." Lestrade's voice was a low, hoarse rasp.

John gave a scoffing laugh. "You can't be serious," he said scathingly. "That's utter bullshit, is what it is!"

"It's a royal decree in Gaaldine," Monseigneur said.

"Oh, yeah? Well, in case you need reminding, I'm not from Gaaldine, and I'm not your subject," argued John hotly.

"And a cat may look upon the King, or the Prince, is that it?" Monseigneur replied. "It matters very little, John. You're the King's subject now. And you're mine the moment you lifted this mask to look at my face."

John shook his head vehemently. "No."

"Yes."

"_No!"_ John did not know what he had in mind, exactly— a menacing step or two towards Monseigneur with the intention of putting his fist into his smug face, perhaps. He did not get far. Between one breath and the next, he was on the ground, his arms held in a painful grip behind him as Lestrade leaned his weight onto his back to press him down.

"John, what the hell do you think you're doing!" hissed Lestrade in warning as John shouted a garbled, Angrian curse. He felt Lestrade digging his weight in further on his back, crushing him to the ground, and through his gathering rage he recognized the futility, the indignity of engaging in a scuffle with Lestrade in front of this bastard, and willed himself to stop struggling after a minute or so.

"Let him up," said Monseigneur impatiently.

John was hauled unceremoniously to his knees. Lestrade's hands were like steel, biting into his flesh, pinioning his hands securely behind his back. John watched Monseigneur approach him leisurely, stopping just in front of him to gaze down at his glowering features with cold imperiousness.

"Is this how you treat someone who saved your life?" John bit out.

"John, John, John," chanted Monseigneur, his voice a soft lullaby as he reached out with one dark-gloved hand to cup John's chin almost tenderly, tilting his face up the better to look at him. "That's the only reason why you're still alive right now."

John felt Monseigneur's eyes take in every bit of his features, finally resting on his mouth, his thin lips curled back in a feral sneer. He would have spat at the man's masked face if he could, but his mouth was suddenly too dry.

"Why fight me so hard, John?" asked Monseigneur softly. "Am I really so repulsive that you'd rather choose to go back to your empty life in Angria, soldiering for some worthless lord who can't even feed you properly and regularly? You've no family to hold you back, you're currently without a master and you're not accountable to anyone back in the mountains that you call home. You'd like to think you're in command of your life but in truth, you're nothing but a bit of leaf fallen off a tree to be blown this way and that by the wind. Such a waste of ability and talent when you can make better use of your time by serving me. At the very least, you'll never be bored."

Nothing from John, except for his harsh breathing.

"In olden days I might have considered maiming you just to make sure you'll never be able to run away from me, but these are more enlightened times. Nevertheless, a royal decree is a royal decree, and everyone stepping foot on Gaaldinian soil is bound to it," said Monseigneur. "I'd rather not kill you, but I shall have no choice if you continue to refuse my overtures. You may be good at what you do, John, but you're not irreplaceable. There will be other healers who will leap at the opportunity that's already in the palm of your hand and that you're so intent on throwing away. Throw it away then. Throw your life away, as well. Consider this the last time I am making an offer. You can choose death, or you can choose to serve me, but if you choose me you must swear on your life that you will devote yourself utterly to me. No lies, or I will know. I'll give you an hour to consider. If you should persist in stubbornly refusing me, then this is the last time we'll be seeing each other. Goodbye then, John, in case we don't see each other again."

Monseigneur let go of John's chin and turned away towards the heavens once more, a strange, shrill whistle emitting from his lips. "I've yet to consider Billy's punishment," he said to Lestrade while waiting for Azrail to descend. "Should anything else happen within the hour that it will take John to make his decision… should I find that he's somehow _escaped_ your clutches, Lestrade—"

The threat behind his words could not be misunderstood.

"It won't happen, my lord." Lestrade's voice was firm.

"See to it that it does not," said Monseigneur, his voice cold.

Azrail finally descended with a grand flapping of wings. "Ah, mon couer," said Monseigneur, voice changing effortlessly into a liquid purr as he held out his gauntleted hand towards the hawk. "How I've missed you."

Lestrade swore heavily, shoving John roughly away from him the moment Monseigneur had gone. He made his way to Billy, who was now openly weeping, and decked him so hard that the boy fell to his knees.

"Imbecile!" snarled Lestrade. "It's just as well you were able to hold off the tears in front of Monseigneur, because God help me, if you let fall a single drop in front of him, I will kill you myself!"

John got to his feet, shaking his head violently as though to clear it. 'Leave the boy alone!" he said. "It's not his fault."

"Damn right it isn't," said Lestrade, rounding back on John, hands clenched into fists. "If it were left to me, I'd gladly murder you both right now. You're in a fine mess, John. So what's it to be? Shall I call on the camp executioner now to sharpen his axe? "

It happened so fast. It barely registered to John that he had lunged at Lestrade until they were both rolling on the ground. Fury was making it difficult for John to reason things out logically. He just needed to do this— hurt someone, kill someone if he could. He would prefer that it was Monseigneur, but if he could not get to him then Lestrade would have to do.

John managed to get a savage punch across Lestrade's jaw before Lestrade sent a fist smashing against his kidney.

"You're a good fighter, John. I'm sure you'll be quite lethal if you have a knife right now, but _I'm. Not. A general. For nothing!"_ Lestrade growled, never relenting as he punctuated his words with punches strategically aimed at John's kidneys, his ribs. His blows were quick, brutal, methodical: bang, bang, bang, _bang!_ "And right now, I have had it with all of you! Monseigneur included!"

He hauled John away to gasp and cough, clutching at his side. Lestrade sat up, and when he spoke again, his voice was weary, "What is the fucking matter with you, disobeying my command like that?"

"You're not…my superior officer," wheezed John.

"And I have no wish to be. I have no use for a soldier who cannot even obey the simplest command," snapped Lestrade. "There is no other way to see this, John. No matter how you're going to turn it around, the fact is you've brought this down on yourself. Pleading ignorance of our customs has never stopped us from executing outsiders who dared to look at the faces of Gaaldinian royalty, unsanctioned. Whether you like it or not, you've lost your freedom, you stupid fool. Now it's only a matter of deciding whether you get to lose your life as well. I don't think you're the type to have a death wish, so why this stubborn refusal to submit to Monseigneur?"

John lay on his side for a moment longer, panting heavily. Then, incredibly, he began to laugh— a soft, giggling sound with a hint of hysteria somewhere in it— as a thought occurred to him, his honest answer: _Because I like it. I like defying him, provoking him at every possible turn. I get off on it._

It was so twisted, so unlike him that he had to wonder for a moment where it came from.

Through the painful throbbing about his bruised ribs and kidney, he saw Lestrade raise incredulous eyebrows. "Oh, you think this is funny, do you?"

John did not answer. He badly needed to ask Lestrade about Monseigneur's… tastes, so evident by his disturbing actions towards him that John had to wonder whether Lestrade and Billy were being deliberately oblivious, but he could not frame such an explosive idea into words. Instead, he asked, "What's with the fucking mask, anyway?"

"It's an ancient tradition, John," said Lestrade. "Only those closest to them know what they really look like."

"But you've seen his face, haven't you?"

"Yes. And now so have you. That knowledge ties us all to him. We're in the same boat now, John."

John shook his head. "It's a stupid tradition," was all he could think to say as he slowly, painfully sat up.

"It's a useful one," corrected Lestrade. "It's meant to protect their identities and to shield them from the scrutiny of the public and from enemies."

"Oh, that tactic is working well, is it?" asked John with biting sarcasm. "It didn't stop _him _fromgetting poisoned, did it?"

"You were there to stop it," Lestrade said. "But Monseigneur is right. There will be others who will be more than willing to take your place if you persist in your pigheaded ways."

"Oh, I can just imagine them queuing for the slot," said John. "Must be a short queue though, if you're all _pouncing_ to take me in on such short notice. Very discriminating of you. You hardly know a thing about me—I'm nothing but an unpolished soldier with a little knowledge of herbal medicine, yet you would allow me this kind of access to His Royal Pain-in-the-Arse—"

"Well, now I'm not sure if you're being truly or falsely modest, or if you're just really clueless as to your own worth," remarked Lestrade dryly. "And by the way, it was Monseigneur himself who allowed you near him. I wouldn't have taken this kind of risk with a stranger. I'm not mad, after all. But Monseigneur has yet to read people wrong. I don't think he read you wrong, John. You ought to be flattered."

Beats of silence as the two regarded each other warily from across the stretch of dusty ground.

"I can't serve someone I have no proper regard for," said John finally.

Lestrade regarded him oddly for a moment or so. "You're pulling my leg, is what you're doing right now," he finally said.

John could feel the hot color creeping up his face. "No, I'm not!" he lied, glaring at Lestrade.

Lestrade shook his head, as if to say John was not fooling anyone other than himself. "You will need some time, then," he said. "We did not have the luxury of starting off on a better footing. You barely know us, and what you have seen so far may have fed your prejudice against us, but I am imploring you, John, to make use of your head and not die for some hazy, misguided principle. We're no longer enemies here."

"And you think that serving him is a better alternative to dying?"

"Yes, of course, it is!" Lestrade burst out, patience wearing dangerously thin. "Is it not quite obvious?"

"I can't imagine how you can endure him after the way he's treated you and Billy," said John. "How can you possibly bring yourself to serve somebody like him?"

"Because Monseigneur is a great man," declared Lestrade, finally getting to his feet. "And I would like to hope that someday, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

Silence for a moment, then John asked softly, "Is it worth it, serving him?"

"If you're strong enough," said Lestrade grimly.

He turned wearily to a sniffling Billy. "Well, that was a fine way to go, nephew," he said. "You've worked your arse off for two years and you just kissed your precious position goodbye in a few minutes of thoughtlessness. I am sure your lady mother, my sister, will be pleased to have you back in total disgrace, if Monseigneur is generous enough to simply let you go. So how did it happen?"

Billy managed to pull enough words together to narrate the brief interview yesterday, when Monseigneur had summoned him and grilled him relentlessly over the tiniest details involving the moments of his delirium. In no time at all, he had fished out the lapse in Billy's judgment when he left John unattended for less than five minutes to fetch Monseigneur's nightshirt.

John closed his eyes as he listened to Billy's account, couched in quivering, frightened tones. So Monseigneur had not really known of his transgression until he had deduced its possibility from Billy's account. He had thought that perhaps Monseigneur had been aware of his lifting that bloody mask off his face, when in fact, to Monseigneur it had all been speculation with hardly any concrete proof...until he had unwittingly provided it. Christ, he should have just stuck to lying his head off.

Well, too late now.

_This isn't real_, a part of his mind whispered. _None of this can possibly be real..._

John opened his eyes and stared off into the distance, at the green hills beyond the garrison, gently rolling away as far as the eye could see. They looked real enough. The throbbing pain in his side where Lestrade had punched him felt very real right now. He was going to die unless he agreed to Monseigneur's proposal. That must be real, too.

John continued to sit there on the ground, feeling the day getting warmer as the sun climbed higher in the heavens. Barely mid-morning on a fine spring day. Hardly an appropriate day to die when everything around him was fresh and green, new and alive…

Lestrade gave John a few more minutes to collect himself, then walked over to him and extended his hand. "I know that Monseigneur has made a liar out of me, but I swear to you, John, that you shall have my full support if you should choose to stay with us," he said. "You may count on me to do everything that I can for you. Just say that you will stay and look at things differently from another angle. You will be surprised to realize that it's really not the end of the world. Perhaps it might even be accurate to say that it's the beginning of a new one."

John looked at Lestrade's outstretched hand vaguely, as though everything were a dream. "I think it's safe to say your word accounts for very little when it comes to anything concerning your master," he said softly, without heat.

Lestrade flushed a dull, angry red. "You will find that it has its uses elsewhere," he said, his voice clipped.

John finally shook himself out of his reverie. He took Lestrade's hand, let the man haul him to his feet.

"So, what's it to be, then?" Lestrade asked.

John gave a heavy, extinguished sigh. He nodded as he made up his mind at last. "Take me to him," he said.

* * *

They found Monseigneur in his quarters, sitting by the table cluttered with glass instruments, a book held up before him with the fingers of one hand.

He looked up just as the trio entered, his gaze instantly fixing on John, who seemed to be looking everywhere except at him.

"So it's not goodbye then," he drawled, lowering his book.

Lestrade cleared his throat and whispered, "Kneel, John."

"That won't be necessary," cut in Monseigneur, shutting the book in his hands with a snap. "Not when he's obviously reluctant. There will be enough time to arrange a formal ceremony where John can take the Oath when we get back to the Lair. By then perhaps he will be willing enough to go down on his knees in front of me without coercion."

He stood up in one fluid motion and approached John with the slow, leisurely prowl of a panther. "I'm rather curious as to how Lestrade finally managed to convince you, John," Monsiegneur said, glancing at the dirt on John's clothes. "The usual way, Lestrade?"

"Quite, sir," said Lestrade laconically.

"Hmm," murmured Monseigneur, gaze fixed on his general's bruised jaw for a second, "and I'm sure those bruises were meant for me. Extraordinary that he managed to get a punch in."

"And he packs a powerful punch, my lord," added Lestrade with rueful amusement.

A twitch of Monseigneur's lips before he brought his full attention back on John.

"Well, now, John," said Monseigneur, his voice soft. "How shall we go about this?"

John finally brought his eyes to meet Monseigneur's. "Before anything else, I've got two conditions," he said, his voice surprisingly steady.

Monseigneur's eyes widened fractionally as he exhaled a soft, disbelieving laugh. Even with the mask on, John could almost see his raised eyebrows. "Cheeky as ever, aren't you? You think you're in a position to negotiate for conditions?"

"First, let my companion go," said John, speaking as though he had not heard Monseigneur. "I don't think there is any need for you to detain him any longer."

Monseigneur stared at him for a few seconds before he said, "And the second condition?"

"There's no need to punish Billy for my actions," said John. "I take full responsibility for all of this."

A soft gasp behind him. Billy.

John watched as Monseigneur flicked a look at the two men behind John. Nobody seemed to be breathing.

"I shall…consider it," said Monseigneur at last.

John could almost hear a collective breath being let out.

"Now then, John," said Monseigneur, hands linked behind him as he made a slow circuit around John, taking him in from every angle. John could feel the hairs on his nape stand on end as he endured Monseigneur's scrutiny. "Your pledge. It may not be anything formal but it is no less binding. Lie about your intentions and I shall know. There will be no false promises, no instant 'yesses' with your fingers crossed behind your back. Once you pledge yourself to me there is no going back, do you understand?"

Silence from John, the conflict inside him still raging in the shadows that chased each other in his eyes. But he lowered his gaze and finally said, "All right."

Monseigneur stopped in front of him again. "Look me in the eye when you say it, John," he said, his voice a command.

John pinned him with a look so intense it was almost a glare. "Yes," he said, his voice firm.

"Swear on your life and to God that you shall serve me and be faithful to me. Only me. For as long as I deem it necessary."

"I swear."

"Your loyalty is mine," declared Monseigneur. "You will never find it in your means to harm me. You shall serve my interests to the best of your abilities, always. You will never betray me."

"Yes. I swear it."

"Very well then, John."

John watched, throat suddenly constricting, making swallowing difficult, as Monseigneur slowly lifted his hands towards his masked face.

_Oh, hell. He's taking off his mask…_

John felt his gaze slide away at the last minute, his heart in his throat, suddenly not sure that he was ready for this, ready to look at Monseigneur's unmasked face. He was right in thinking that this was the one act that would ultimately seal his fate and link it forever with this man's.

"Look at me, John."

He would really prefer not to look right now, but there was nothing to be done. He had already gone this far, had sworn an oath of allegiance to this man. He had given himself over to him. No turning back now.

After a moment, John lifted his head, peering from under his brows almost shyly at Monseigneur's unshielded face.

He looked just as John remembered him from the other night: the thick dark brows, the slanting, pale eyes that were a darker shade of blue right now, dancing with cool amusement and satisfaction as Monseigneur returned his gaze. Those high, chiseled cheekbones, the straight nose, that unique mouth, stretched ever so slightly in a smile. A face not easily accessible to others and to whose owner he was now bound.

Silently, John looked back and took his fill of those extraordinary features, and found, to his amazement, that he had not turned to stone. He was still the same John, not struck dead, or blinded by Monseigneur's visage as he had half-expected. The same John, yet forever changed.

Monseigneur tossed the velvet mask carelessly on the table and said quite casually, "I thought I was never going to be rid of that blasted thing."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The informal oath that Monseigneur made John take is based on a **Medieval** **Knight's Oath of Fealty** to his lord and master. Normally, a vassal will swear allegiance and pay homage to his lord in a commendation ceremony, which was designed to create a lasting bond between a vassal and his lord. To take an oath was a very solemn proceeding; it was an appeal to God, by which a man called down on himself divine punishment if he swore falsely. More on the ceremony in future chapters. (Source: Medieval Life and Times)

Hepzibah at AO3 asked about the tradition of wearing masks by royalty as depicted in this fic and whether it has any historical basis. There is none, as far as I am aware. It's actually based on a scene in a favorite film of mine whose title I cannot reveal at present because I will be lifting some more details from it. It will be revealed in the end, though. Thanks for your patience! ^_~


	12. Chapter 11

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 11**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Happy New Year! Thank you so much for all your fantastic feedback and for making 2012 such a great year for me in terms of writing Sherlock fanfics. Wishing everyone a wonderful 2013!

Link, you've read my mind regarding Alec's possible reaction to John's new situation! Many thanks, dear!

Please see more author's notes at the end.

* * *

La volupté unique et suprême de l'amour gît dans la certitude de faire le mal.

(The unique and supreme pleasure of love is the certainty that one is doing evil.)

_- Charles Baudelaire_

* * *

Monseigneur tossed the velvet mask carelessly on the table and said quite casually, "I thought I was never going to be rid of that blasted thing. Billy, some water to wash my face, please."

John tore his gaze briefly away from the man's face to look at Lestrade standing behind him. Lestrade stared back at him grimly, lips compressed in a thin line.

_No going back now, John._

Monseigneur was already moving away. "Lestrade will be responsible for you, John," he said, leafing through a book on the table. "He and Billy will see to your every need. You will try not to make their task of looking after you more difficult than it already is, won't you?"

John frowned at Monseigneur's implications, but before he could reply, Billy came in with a bowl of rosewater.

He watched as Monseigneur washed his face, his movements precise, fastidious. He dried his face with a clean towel slung over Billy's arm. All the while, he gave instructions: "Lestrade, arrange to have John introduced to the knights and your corps of special soldiers. Let them know John is directly under my command. Observe closely how they will react to him. They will accord him the same regard as they would one of their own and they will answer to me personally should word ever reach me that John has been ill-treated in any way."

"Yes, of course, my lord," Lestrade said. "In this case, may I suggest that John have dinner with us in the mess hall later?"

Monseigneur sighed in resignation. "I shall have to preside over dinner then," he said, "to make the necessary introductions."

"Just this first dinner, sir."

"Fine. John will need a change of clothes," said Monseigneur. "Dismissed."

"Not you," he told John as he made to follow Lestrade and Billy out of the tent. Monseigneur swept an elegant hand over the direction of a chair that stood close to the table. "Sit."

John hesitated briefly, then approached the indicated chair and sat down gingerly, his heart thumping away in his chest. It occurred to him that their dynamics were constantly changing whenever they found themselves to be alone with each other— first as battling opponents, then doctor and patient, and now…now what? Master and servant? John felt something twist sharply, unhappily, inside him at the thought. Yet what choice did he have in the matter?

John eyed Monseigneur warily, almost resentfully, his gaze never leaving his face, as the man bent down to inspect various glass slides filled with fluid, transparent and colored, on the table.

"How is it, then, John?" asked Monseigneur quite gently after a moment.

Startled, John said, "How is what?"

"My face," said Monseigneur, his attention not deviating from the slides laid out before him. He took out a small bottle of fluid from a tray and proceeded to add a few drops onto the slides. "I can practically feel your gaze boring a hole into its side. Everything in place, I trust? No extra eyes or ears, or misplaced features, I hope, to elicit such an intensity of regard that you're according it right now?"

John tore his gaze away, embarrassed and feeling an ungainly urge to laugh before he remembered that everything about this man was to be resisted. He had pledged his allegiance to Monseigneur, but there was no reason to make it easy for the man to take anything from him, beginning with laughter.

"What are you doing?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Analyzing water samples from two villages," Monseigneuer said, putting his hands together under his chin as though in prayer.

"Two villages…you mean, those plague villages," said John.

Monseigneur finally lifted his gaze to look at John, his expression veiled. "Somebody has been talking," he said.

John shrugged. "Sally Donovan and I got to talking, when she accompanied me to the forest to gather more medicine," he said.

"I see," said Monseigneur. "And what other tales has the loquacious Sally been regaling you with?"

_Oh, nothing much_, thought John. _Unless we're to believe her accounts of your many perversities practiced with your male lovers in the privacy of your dungeons._

He briefly wondered whether he could get Lestrade or Billy to confirm or deny Sally's wild tale. "She thought you caught the plague from one of the villages," he answered Monseigneur.

"But you know otherwise. Those villages did not suffer a visitation of the plague," said Monseigneur, pushing a glass slide towards John. "It's something much more sinister."

John stared at the slide, then back at Monseigneur. "What am I looking at?" he said.

"This is a detection kit of my own making," said Monseigneur, motioning to a set of chemicals standing ready in a small tray beside him. "Uncontaminated water will remain colorless when I add a few drops of my special solution into it. Indeed, all the water samples I've collected from the various water sources surrounding these villages all turned out to be all right— all except the samples from the wells."

"What are you looking for, exactly?" asked John, picking up a slide and squinting at it, as though by doing so it would divulge its secrets.

"People were fine one day and started vomiting the next. There was bleeding through the mouth and nose, a violent ache in the bones. People started dying before the sun went down," said Monseigneur, arching his brows meaningfully at John.

"Poison," said John softly as his meaning hit home. "You think it's poison."

"I don't just think it," said Monseigneur. "I know it. Two remote villages struck within a span of four months. Very similar symptoms, except it took a much shorter time for the villagers in the second hamlet to die."

"You think some sort of poisoner was behind it—"

"—And honing his or her craft with tremendous skill," finished Monseigneur. "Between one village and the next, the poisoner got better, the execution of his or her plans became more efficient, systematic. These villages were a part of an experiment, John."

"You think this is related to your own poisoning?" John said.

"Don't you think it unusual that I myself should be poisoned when I came here to investigate two cases of mass poisoning?"

"But how can you be sure?" argued John. "I mean, it's possible that you could have come down with it by visiting those villages and accidentally coming into contact with the well water when you were collecting your samples."

"Except I didn't come into contact with the water. I made sure I didn't," said Monseigneur. "Whoever planned my poisoning managed to get to me days ago. Everything had been done with deliberate care."

"Why do you think this is connected with your case?"

"I did mention the subject before I left court days ago," said Monseigneur. "Somebody who had a special interest in these events may have thought it imperative to remove me from my investigation."

John's eyes were suddenly keen. "Has anyone died suspiciously at court lately?" he asked.

Monseigneur smiled. "No," he said, "Not yet anyway."

"You'll have to tell your brother, then," John said. "Alert him that there's a would-be murderer moving around at his court."

"No."

John was surprised. "Why not? Supposing the murderer targets him?"

"That would be one less nuisance off my list, I can assure you," said Monseigneur dryly. Seeing John's incredulity, he added: "But as I have no wish to succeed him as ruler of this side of the world, my brother will have to stay put. On the other hand, I do not wish to alarm the poisoner prematurely, and informing the King will definitely raise alarm bells all throughout Gaaldine. The King shall be informed, in due time, but not yet when a great deal of data is still lacking and we haven't consolidated a plan."

John stared at him, then said carefully, "You don't like him very much, do you? Your brother?"

Monseigneur affected surprise. "That obvious, is it?" he asked.

A thought formed in John's mind. "Do you think, perhaps your brother might be the one who…I mean, considering the state of your relations."

"The thought has occurred, but no," said Monseigneur. He looked at John, his gaze sharp. "A word to the wise, John. Always curb your tongue before it unthinkingly commits treason."

"Why?" John asked. "I mean, you've thought of it, too."

"We can't both think of it, much less say it out loud," said Monseigneur. "Although it is an intriguing possibility, isn't it? He is one of the people I came in contact with regularly during the past week. And you are right. Our brotherly relations are not at fever pitch. However, knowing my brother, he wouldn't have resorted to this kind of meretricious tactic, no matter his fondness for drama. Besides, I rather think he wouldn't quite dare or else he would have done it years ago. Still, one of his subordinates might have decided to take matters into his hands and believe he's doing it for King and country."

"Why wouldn't he dare?" John asked curiously.

Monseigneur said, straight-faced, "Because of Mummy."

John blinked. "Mummy?" he repeated uncertainly.

"Our mother," clarified Monseigneur. "My brother would rather die than break her heart."

"Oh." John found that he could not say anything to that.

"It's not my brother, but it can be somebody close to him. I already have five possible suspects, all of whom I've had contact with in one form or the other days ago. I won't be back at court to see these people until just before the wedding between your queen and my brother, which shall take place in three months' time. It's not much, but I am hoping it will be enough time for us to get ready. "

John straightened slightly in his seat. "You want me to prepare an antidote in case the poisoner strikes again," he said.

"No, I want to bring you to the Gaaldinian royal court and show you off as my latest conquest," said Monseigneur, his voice sharpening ever so slightly with a flash of impatience. At John's wide-eyed countenance, he sighed and said, "Of course I want you to prepare an antidote, John. That's what you're here for, after all."

John said nothing, merely returned Monseigneur's gaze as he continued to feel the shock reverberating throughout his entire person at the man's abrupt words. Whether he would admit it or not, the idea that he would be exhibited as Monseigneur's trophy had been part of his fears and suspicions that for a moment, it had seemed as though Monseigneur had managed to read his mind and seen his thoughts for what they were.

The man was clearly dangerous— something that made John even more uneasy, considering how he responded to danger.

Billy's timely arrival saved him from having to form a reply to Monseigneur's unexpected outburst.

"A change of clothes for Sir John, my lord," the boy said, a new outfit hanging at the crook of his arm.

John began to protest: "I'm sure there's no need for that. I mean, I can just brush the dust off this shirt—"

"Change." Monseigneur's tone did not invite opposition.

John gaped at him, then stood up diffidently after a longish pause. "Well, then, I'll just—"

"No. Here. You can change here," said Monseigneur. "There's hardly any reason for modesty, John. We're all men, after all. You've seen me bathe."

John could feel his cheeks burning. _You'd like that, wouldn't you?_ he thought.

"I'd much rather change in private," he ground out.

"And I'd much rather you do so in front of me," said Monseigneur in a reasonable tone, "so that settles the matter, doesn't it?"

With great effort, John bit back the violent oath that threatened to leave his lips and turned away brusquely from Monseigneur. "Make this quick," he muttered to Billy.

It was all done within seconds. He quickly stripped off his outer coat and shirt, soiled and stained with grass from his earlier encounter with Lestrade, and pulled the new outfit that Billy handed him over his head. All the while, he could feel the hairs on his arms standing on end with the acute awareness that Monseigneur was paying close attention to his every move. He kept his back to him as much as possible. He refused point-blank to change his trousers.

"I want to see my companion," John announced shortly, not turning around to look at Monseigneur and thinking that a fight would very likely erupt if the bastard insisted he changed his trousers in front of him. "I'll need to change his wound dressing."

Luckily, Monseigneur did not press it. "You may say your farewells to him when you're done with his bandages," John heard him say from behind.

* * *

Immediately outside the tent and away from Monseigneur's gaze, Billy seemed to melt into a puddle at John's feet.

"What is this?" John asked as Billy took his hand and kissed it. For a moment, it seemed as though the boy was going to dissolve in a wave of fresh tears.

"Sir, I do not know how to begin to express how grateful I…I—" Billy said in a trembling voice.

"Enough of that," interrupted John kindly. "Up you get. Don't speak of it to anyone, lest word reaches your master that you've been talking about things that concern him. I do believe he's got an extra set of eyes and ears somewhere about his person. At the back of his head, perhaps."

Billy gave a watery laugh as he rose to his feet. "I just want you to know, sir, that I shall not forget your kindness," he said with a curiously touching, earnest self-confidence seen only from the very young. "Nor will my uncle."

John cleared his throat in discomfort. "Yes, well," he said. "I just wish my companion will feel the same way over all this."

* * *

True to John's expectations, Alec burst into tears when he heard of the queen's decision to marry the Gaaldinian king.

"Why?" Alec asked John in their native Angrian. "Why would she give in so easily just because he gave a little nudge?"

John shrugged. "Maybe it wasn't just a little nudge," he said.

He glanced at Billy, who only nodded, as if he understood the need of the two men to converse in their own tongue as they made to part ways.

"She should have just given the orders for us to start marching," continued Alec fiercely. "We'd give these Gaaldinians a sight they won't be forgetting for quite some time."

"I'd hate to point this out, Alec," said John equably. "But if war were to start while we're held captive by a group of Gaaldinians, I doubt if we'd see the kind of action we're hoping for."

Alec shook his head as he continued to weep. "The queen has betrayed us all. She is nothing but a puppet," he said. "Worse: a whore."

"No, she's not," John said, his tone hardening more than he intended. He knew this was how Alec would see things. Wait until he heard of John's deal with Monseigneur. What would he be called then? "She managed to prevent blood from being spilled on both sides. Can't you see that, Alec?"

"We're soldiers, John Watson," said Alec vehemently. "Spilling the enemy's blood is what we do."

John stared at Billy for a moment and said slowly, deliberately, "That's not all we do."

Alec shook his head defiantly. "What are they going to do to us now?" he asked.

"We're not enemies now, so you're free to go back to Angria," said John keeping his eyes on the task at hand as he finished tending to Alec's wound.

The meaning of his words was not lost on Alec. He stared at John, stricken. "And you?" he whispered.

"You will just have to regard me as dead, Alec," John said, and he was proud that his voice remained steady as he said it.

"No!"

"The man you've known as John Watson no longer exists," said John. This time he could not help the slight trembling of his fingers as he started to pack his medicine bag. "Your wound is healing well. I shall leave you a pack of medicine so that your wound will continue to mend. You will need a horse, some money. I am sure they will provide all of that and an escort to see that you get safely back to the border—"

Alec roughly fisted his hands on John's shirt, entreating, "Listen to me, John! If you've made a deal with them just so I can go free, you don't have to go through with it!"

John shook off his hands. "Of course I have to go through with it," he snapped. "And this isn't just about you."

"Then what is this about? Who is this about?" Alec wanted to know.

John shook his head. _You wouldn't understand_, he thought. _I don't understand it in its entirety, either._

"It's your responsibility to find a way to escape, John," said Alec urgently. "It's your duty. You don't owe these people anything, least of all your loyalty. Unless…"

Alec's meaning was clear as he stared at John's clothes with disgust.

John looked away, refusing to be drawn into an argument that could turn violent in seconds. And to Billy, John's next words, accented in a heavy, Angrian brogue, sounded like this: "Fare thee weel, Alec. Na h-uile la gu math duit."

* * *

So now he had cut his links with Angria. He was dead to his people. As far as they would see it, he was a traitor for giving in.

John accompanied Billy back to Monseigneur's tent, his heart as heavy as lead. His conversation with Alec had shaken him more than he cared to admit. More than anything else, Alec had thrown light into his situation and the motivations underpinning his actions.

_What is this about? Who is this about?_

John's reply had been weak, his reasons hollow even to his own ears. He had been deliberately vague when he said his reasons for staying were not all about Alec. Obviously, he would have meant it had something to do with rescuing Billy, which was true anyway. But then again, if he were to be really honest with himself, it was not just about Billy either.

It was about him. If John were to be completely honest, it was all about _him._ Always. Right from the very start.

It was the very moment when John realized that he was quite damned.

Monsiegneur, upon hearing him enter the tent with Billy, turned immediately from Lestrade to say lightly, "Ah, there's John. What say you, John? Are you ready for dinner with the soldiers?"

The slightest pause as John stared at him, that diabolical mask back on his face. "I'm as ready as I ever will be," he finally said.

"No, you're not," said Monseigneur as he approached John.

Before John could think to move, Monseigneur had lifted his hands to adjust his rumpled clothing. "Your companion did not take kindly to the idea of a royal wedding, then," he said, his gaze amused.

John swallowed and did not say anything, feeling Monseigneur's fingers tugging his collar into place, smoothing the creases of his shirt from his shoulders.

The man was seductive wickedness personified, but John had the unpleasant, sneaking suspicion that a part of him was willing to be in full collusion with Monsiegneur. In that sense, he was actively conniving with him. He was participating in a sin, doing evil. And through it all, he had never felt more alive than when he was in the presence of this demonic man.

He was damned, damned, _damned._

"Billy, see to it that you teach John how to take care of his appearance," said Monseigneur even as he continued to look at John. And to John himself: "You're my man now, John. See to it that you learn to act like one."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: "Fare thee weel. Na h-uile la gu math duit" is a Gaelic farewell blessing which means "Farewell. May all your days be good." (Source: eHow . com)


	13. Chapter 12

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 12**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you so much for your lovely reviews. Happy Birthday to 666BloodyHell666. I do hope you like the "touchy" part at the end!

PB, thank you so much for your beautiful review in French. I'm sorry my French is not good at all, so I have to reply using English.

Kat, yes, indeed, John is frightened of the unknown, and there will be more unknowns in store for him in this chapter.

Please note that "dinner" during medieval times was equivalent to our lunch, served usually around 12 noon to 2 pm. Please see more author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

John stood at the center of the expanding crowd, the spectators gathered in a rough circle around him and his opponent, thinking how on earth had a simple dinner brought on a confrontation such as this. But then again, given the level of curiosity and interest (not necessarily friendly) in his person, how could it not?

He was dressed in a chainmail shirt and a borrowed black and silver surcoat— Monseigneur's colors. It was Billy's, who was almost Monseigneur's height. John could feel the fabric trailing down to his shins and fervently hoped that he wouldn't trip on it. Vambraces covered his arms and greaves were on his legs, even though it was the agreement that there would be no striking below the waist.

In his gauntleted hands was a waster— a wooden training sword, two and a half feet long. Monseigneur and Lestrade had refused to let them use real swords. This was, after all, only a demonstration. A mini-behourd.

John regarded his opponent before him, a Sir Athelney Jones, who had a politely doubtful smile on his face, and for a moment, his mind raced back to the events at dinner that had brought this joust on.

* * *

John could remember the sudden hush in the tent that served as the mess hall as Monseigneur entered, followed by Lestrade. He trailed just behind Lestrade, with Billy bringing up the rear.

John kept his gaze fixed on Monseigneur's back and refused to let it stray as he marched into the tent. Even so, he could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on him. He had been given the seat to Monseigneur's left. Lestrade sat on Monseigneur's right. Behind Monseigneur stood Billy who, at the same time as attending to his master, was attempting very kindly and ineffectually to lend some support to John as well.

A low murmuring broke out immediately among the ranks, pausing briefly only for the short prayer that marked the start of the meal. John stared at the trencher laid out before him— a large, round piece of dry bread that would serve as his plate— as Monseigneur began his introductions in Gondalian.

It was the first time John had ever heard him speak at length in the language and as always, one could not hear the liquid purr of his voice without feeling a little bit ravished.

John resolutely bore the collective stare screwing into his entire being as Monseigneur described very briefly how John had come into his service by getting rid of his fever. He very conveniently left off his methods in securing John's allegiance. A few minutes later, Monseigneur words were suddenly comprehensible to John as he fluidly switched languages.

"I trust that you will all accord John Watson every courtesy as if he were one of our own," said Monseigneur, "as he is, indeed, from here on."

Bowls of water for hand washing were presented to them as the murmurs got louder. Dinner was served: roasted beef and salted venison served in a rich, spicy sauce. Dishes of chicken and pigeon. A variety of breads. Cheeses. Fruit stewed in milk and honey. They ate heartily and with their hands.

There was a lot of talk, partially in Gondalian which John could not understand at all. But from their facial expressions, ranging from mild interest to outright incredulity, he could imagine what was being communicated between the carefully polite lines of inquiry: _What? This person— this foreigner— of low and uncertain birth, taken in by the Prince just because he showed some aptitude in healing a little fever? Is that really all there is to it?_

At that very moment, John could perfectly understand what a pig must feel like, skewered and gradually roasted over an open fire. And although he was sitting with Monseigneur and Lestrade at the front table, it was impossible not to have a neighbor to his left. In this case, Sally Donovan.

"Well, well. So you're still here, John Watson," she said in a low voice, her gaze coolly appraising as she eyed him from head to foot. "And to be accorded every courtesy! What a difference a few days make in Monseigneur's company."

John turned to her. "Hello again," he said briefly.

An upward twitch of Sally's lips. "I told you that you won't have any choice in serving him," she said, her voice smug. "You won't be able to leave. Not when he doesn't want you to."

John looked at her, his blue eyes guileless. He surprised himself with his next words: "Why do you suppose I'd want to leave?"

He savored the flare of surprise in Sally's dark eyes. Recklessly, he added, "You've got any more stories about him to tell me? Because, you know, we may be able to put your theory about the contents of his dungeons to the test very soon."

Sally gave him a cold look, aware that he was making fun of her, quite possibly even threatening her a little with his knowledge of her careless words, then turned away to talk to Anderson beside her.

John gave himself a mental shake as he realized the outrageous implications of his own words. W_hat the hell did you mean by all that?_ He asked himself, stunned.

John watched as Anderson looked past Sally to give him a lizard glare. Anderson brought a consoling hand up to Donovan's shoulder, but its mission was abruptly aborted midway. John frowned, watching Anderson's gaze dropping and his hand falling suddenly away from Sally.

"Of course, they're sleeping together," remarked Monseigneur, not bothering to lower his voice as he leaned over towards John. John forced himself not to jump at his sudden proximity.

"Probably for three months now. Anderson's wife has removed herself to the country," Monseigneur continued, a cool smile playing at his lips as he watched Donovan and Anderson looking pointedly away. "It's stirred up quite a bit of talk at court lately."

John stared at Monseigneur for a moment and did not quite know what to say.

"Your Highness, we have heard many stories about the fighting prowess of Highlanders," said one of the knights, drawing Monseigneur's attention from the hapless couple. "May we venture to inquire as to whether John Watson is capable of combat?"

"Why? Do you wish to try him out?" Monseigneur drawled.

"We'd be delighted, Your Highness," replied Sir Athelney Jones from a few seats down. "This will be an excellent opportunity to know our would-be opponents, now that war has been averted by His Majesty."

The knight ran an assessing eye over John as he continued, "Though he's not very tall, is he?"

A sudden silence. John could feel the temperature drop by several degrees in Monseigneur's voice when he finally asked, "Do you think you can judge his fighting prowess by his height?"

Sir Athelney drew back a little at Monseigneur's tone but he stubbornly held his ground. "That…is one of the usual ways of assessing an opponent, after all, Your Highness," he murmured. "Height does contribute to one's strength when swinging a sword."

Monseigneur smiled unpleasantly. "Are you issuing a challenge then, Sir Athelney?" he asked.

Sir Athelney suddenly began fidgeting. "Of course I wouldn't _presume_ to do so, unless Your Highness—"

But Monseigneur was already turning to John. "What say you, John? You've just been challenged," he said. "Would you care to accept?"

John stared, then opened his mouth to say, "I…"

But Monseigneur was already laying down the terms: "Let's arrange for a small behourd at 3 o'clock, then. Chain mail and partial armor will do, and wooden wasters, as we have no wish to see you lose an arm or a leg, Sir Athelney. Twelve points accumulated first should see the winner."

Sir Athelney stared at Monseigneur as he dictated his conditions, fired so rapidly from his mouth as to render any form of dissent impossible. Then he smiled and said, "As you wish, Your Highness. But wooden wasters…?"

"No real swords," said Lestrade flatly. "There's no need to court any injuries heavier than what a wooden sword is capable of delivering."

Sir Athelney turned to Lestrade in surprise. "And such is your faith in the fighting abilities of this man, my lord?"

"See for yourself, sir," said Lestrade, smiling.

John watched as Sir Athelney opened his mouth as if to make a retort, then stopped as his eyes alighted on the bruises along Lestrade's jaw.

"Well, that settles it, then." Monseigneur turned to John. "Do you agree to the conditions, John?"

Monseigneur sounded serious, as though John had any real say in the matter.

"All right," John said simply.

* * *

Billy was fitting John with a gambeson and a chain mail shirt when Monseigneur stormed into his quarters.

"Do not tarry, John," he said abruptly. "I want you to take him down as soon as possible. Disarming or immobilizing him will earn you three points. Likewise any effective thrust to the head, shoulder or face. Four successful blows in the right places are all you will need to end it."

"Sir Athelney is little more than a posturing fool, my lord," said Lestrade easily. "He's young and inexperienced enough to say the first thing that enters his mind. There is no need to be so affected by his words."

"I don't care," snapped Monseigneur. "He needs to be put in his place."

John was staring at Monseigneur, wondering at his black rage. "He's your knight," he said.

Monseigneur stopped in front of him. "He doesn't have the nerve to say it more explicitly, but this is his way of voicing his doubts, not just about my choices, but about the King's pact with your queen. Evidently they're as unhappy with it as your companion was," he said. "They all want war, the idiots!"

John opened his mouth, then shut it again. _He's angry. He's upset that people— his own people— would question him for taking me in, _he thought.

He was not sure how he should feel about that.

Monseigneur ran an eye over his outfit, then said to Billy, "Have him fitted with a surcoat of my colors. He's fighting this bout on my behalf."

"I'm afraid we don't have any his size, my lord," said Billy.

"You'll have to lend him one of yours then."

Monseigneur's attention was back on John. "Listen to me, John," he said. "Athelney Jones may be an imbecile, but he is tenacious as a lobster. Spare him no room to cling to any hope of winning. Take him down as soon as you can."

This time, John's smile held no ambivalence. "If you say so," he said.

* * *

So now here he was.

Billy approached to give him his helmet just as Lestrade laid down the rules for the benefit of the assembled crowd. The excited din of the crowd was getting louder, stronger, as was the surge of John's blood deep within him.

Certainly, nothing felt sweeter to John than the certainty that he was in his element here. This was what he was good at. This was what he lived for after everything else had been taken from him.

Nobody could take this from him.

Slowly, he fitted the helmet over his head. It was light and comfortable, covering his features and leaving a narrow, T-shaped opening for his eyes, nose and mouth. He watched as his opponent also put on his helmet, his armor gleaming in the afternoon sun.

"Places, gentlemen!" Lestrade called.

The two combatants got into position. John shifted the wooden sword in his hands and held it at the ready just as Lestrade yelled, _"Start!"_

As with his fight with Monseigneur, the first, savage meeting of their swords was all it took for John to know everything he needed to know about his opponent. There was no doubt that the knight was strong, and there was considerable skill behind his movements, but the height which he claimed to be all-important was making him slower as well.

Thrust and parry and swerve. It took John less than fifteen seconds to knock Sir Altheney's sword from his hands.

The gasp and roar of the crowd, Lestrade shouting off his points— all sounds faded to nothing against the blood singing in John's ears.

Amid the noise, Sir Athelney's voice rose in protest, "But he's left-handed!"

Lestrade's abrasive laughter rang loudly from the edge of the crowd. "What of it, sir?" he asked rudely. "Do you have the luxury to say that to your opponent moments before he cuts off your head?"

John felt his lips stretch into a grin as he heard Lestrade's muffled words through his helmet.

Without another word, the opponents got into position again. John's grip on his sword was tight as he tilted it in place. Then he let go of all the tightness as he swung the sword toward Sir Athelney. He let it all go— his anger, his many frustrations with Monseigneur. The muscles of his hands and arms were completely relaxed as his sword made a short, perfect arc through the air. Then the tight grip, with all his fury condensed into it, returned again just before the moment of impact.

Sir Athelney met his blow with his sword but the force behind John's savage swing made sure the knight would not be able to withstand a second hammering. And a third. All delivered with lightning speed. A sharp crack at the man's gauntleted hands finally sent his sword flying yet again.

Incredibly enough, there was applause in the crowd. Sir Athelney shook his head as he got up from the ground to retrieve his sword.

A brief moment for John to catch his breath and wait for his opponent to recover. His gaze scanned the crowd and rested for a brief second on the tall, still figure in black standing beside Lestrade. Monseigneur was watching silently, his thoughts and the expression on his face carefully locked away behind his mask. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze burning on John.

Something dark and treacherous stirred inside John upon meeting that gaze. _Yes,_ that thing newly awakened inside him whispered. _Look at me, just like that. Look at me, just as I am now._

John tore his gaze away as Lestrade yelled for them to get into position again. _Dammit, John, focus!_

Sir Athelney managed a small rally this time around, managing a hit on John's shoulder, another just below his waist.

John exhaled a slow breath, allowed the tingling sensation of pain to register briefly before he turned away from it.

_Focus. _

Sir Athelney lunged at him, attempting to throw his weight onto his sword. John swerved away at the last minute and saw an opportunity to bring his sword crashing onto the knight's side.

Nine points.

John looked up just in time to see Monseigneur give him an almost imperceptible nod.

_Finish it now._

John made the last blow as a strike through the shoulder as Sir Athelney charged at him. He received a hit as well across the chest, but the game was over.

A jubilant cheer and the sound of clapping hands rose through the crowd, and John could not help grinning as he removed his helmet and moved to help his opponent to his feet. He let his gaze roam the crowd as Lestrade came forward to offer his congratulations.

But he was not there.

He was gone.

* * *

Afterwards, Lestrade brought John to see to Sir Athelney's wounds.

"It's nothing," protested Sir Athelney, as he sat hunched over a stool in his tent, attempting to wave them away. "Just a few bruises. Nothing that I cannot handle."

John said nothing as he soaked a small towel in the warm water sloshing within the basin he had carried in. He felt Sir Athelney's ribs contract and heard a brief hiss of pain as he pressed the moist towel on his bruises.

"What is that?" asked Sir Athelney as John proceeded to cover his bruises with a fragrant, green paste after the warm compresses.

"A mixture of herbs," answered John. "Comfrey, goatweed and a little bit of macerated cabbage to hasten the healing and remove the blood from under the skin. It should start to improve by tomorrow."

"Well, it does feel very nice," muttered Sir Athelney as he watched John coat the stuff thinly on his ribs, his waist. John plastered it all into place by linen wrappings. All throughout, he could feel Sir Athelney's gaze on him, slightly bewildered, still trying to work him out. Finally, the man seemed to come to a decision.

He extended a hand towards John after he had finished applying the poultice. "Thank you. And the game was excellent, John Watson," he said solemnly. "It seems I was wrong about you. Very wrong."

John stared at the hand held out to him for a moment before he took it and gave it a brief shake. "It was well played," he said.

"You see now, Sir Athelney," said Lestrade, "how much better off we all are to be friends with John Watson rather than to face him in the battlefield. He is but one man. Think of having to fight hundreds, thousands like him."

"Agreed," said Sir Athelney ruefully.

* * *

Monseigneur was nowhere to be found immediately after the game was over, but John should have known he would show up when he was least expected to do so.

When John was most vulnerable.

He had just finished his bath and Billy had given him a towel to wrap around his waist when Monseigneur came striding into the bathing tent.

John felt himself freeze, his fingers digging into the fleecy towel, as Monseigneur said from behind, "Billy, go fetch a fresh shirt for John and feel free to take your time about it."

"Yes, sir." Billy turned away from the pack of fresh clothes he had been preparing for John and left the tent.

John turned slowly around to find Monseigneur standing a few feet away, his face masked, his hands on his hips. He surveyed him with a slight smile on his lips. John found himself clutching tightly at the towel covering his nether parts as though it might fall away at any moment.

"You know that order hardly makes any sense," was all he could think to say as he felt his brain seize up. "There's a fresh change of clothes for me right here."

Monseigneur shrugged. "They're not fresh enough," he said.

John swallowed, did his best to frown disapprovingly. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, "I didn't see you after the joust."

Oh, God. That wasn't what he meant. That came out all wrong.

"Not that it's any concern of mine where you took yourself off to, of course," John hastened to say.

"I was busy," said Monseigneur laconically. "Besides, I knew you would win. Well done, John."

"Yes, well…" John licked his suddenly dry lips. "I hope you're pleased."

"I am," said Monseigneur as he took a step towards him. "Very pleased, indeed. They think I've made a colossal mistake with you, John, but they're wrong."

John involuntarily took a step back and turned away, suddenly unable to bear the man's proximity and his gaze which seemed capable of burning a hole through any fabric. "Well. You're welcome, I suppose."

"You're hurt." A sudden change in Monseigneur's tone.

John looked down at the bruises on his flanks. "Oh, that," he said. "That was Lestrade."

And how long ago it seemed, when Lestrade had punched him on the kidneys; yet it had happened only that morning.

"It's…it's nothing. I mean, it doesn't even hurt that much anymore," said John, aware that he was starting to babble just to break the thick silence that hung between them. "I've got some herbs for it. It should…oh, _Jesus Christ whatthe__fuck__areyoudoing-!" _

The last words, uttered in a raw voice, in pure panic.

John flinched as he felt Monseigneur's hand settle on his bruises. His touch was light, the feel of his palm warm. His fingers were gentle on John's skin as they swept fleetingly over the ugly, mottled reds and dark violets that bloomed across John's flank.

The touch was so tender that it was almost not there.

Almost.

It was just a touch, yet it sent a violent jolt through John. Astonished disbelief washed through him as he felt his body immediately responding, hardening beneath the towel. He felt he would die of shame, of arousal, of a thousand feelings he had long held at bay.

Monseigneur smiled at him. "From your reaction, John, it's not what you think," he murmured.

John glared at him.

"Let go, John," Monseigneur said softly. He meant John's hand, clamping down hard like a vice on his fingers.

"I don't care to be touched," hissed John. "_Why_ are you doing this?"

"Because I need to know the injuries I've inflicted upon you, knowingly and unknowingly. Let me, John."

"But you didn't inflict—"

"Yes, I did. Through Lestrade."

John gaped at him for a moment longer before he slowly let his hand fall away from Monseigneur's fingers. He choked back his protests and forced himself to stillness as Monseigneur continued his gentle exploration of John's bruises until he was satisfied. And then slowly and very deliberately, he withdrew his fingers from John's skin.

"Four punches," Monseigneur said, the sound of his voice thicker, deeper than usual. "Delivered in quick succession. A hard twist of his knuckles upward and inward into your flesh as each of the punches landed in."

John stared at him, his breathing quick, erratic, almost panting. He fought to keep from shivering. "Yes," he said at last.

"See to it that it doesn't happen again, John," said Monseigneur, his gaze ice-blue, glittering, hard. "Kindly make sure you will give me no reason to hurt you in future."

John's nostrils flared as he exhaled a gusty breath, his gaze darkening and turning to flint. The silence between them dragged on for a heartbeat longer. Two.

A rustle of canvas as Billy suddenly reentered the tent. "I've got Sir John's shirt, sir," he said, sounding unsure as he glanced from one man to the other.

"Good," said Monseigneur as he finally turned away. "See to it that John gets dressed before he catches his death of cold."

* * *

**More author's notes**: Whoa! Going to be very, very long!

The practice of eating on trenchers— plate-sized pieces of stale bread with an indentation at the center to hold food — dates back to the early medieval ages. After the meal, these were either given to the poor or fed to dogs. It was such an interesting feature of medieval eating practices that I had to put it into the fic, even though it may not be an accurate picture of how knights and higher soldiers actually ate with their lord, especially during the late medieval ages. (Source: Medieval Life and Times)

Medieval armor comprised several garments, starting with the gambeson, a padded defensive jacket worn beneath chain mail or plates of armour. Chain mail was a flexible armor which was made from interlinked metal rings. It was used prior to the development of suits of armor and then worn in conjunction with these suits. It was designed as either as a garment covering the entire body, or a shirt to protect only the upper body. Partial plate armor was first introduced during the late 13th century and full plate armor covering the entire body was introduced during the 15th century and may weigh up to 50 lbs. There was a wide variety of partial plate armor, such as breast plates for the chest and back plates for the back. There were also vambraces fitted over the arms and greaves to protect the legs.

A surcoat is a sleeveless dress or outer garment extending to the knees, usually adorned with heraldic devices such as crosses and the colors are usually lifted from the banners of a knight's lord and master.

Medieval man-to-man combat is a brutal science. It uses techniques which are efficient and ruthless. The goal is to put the opponent down quickly. A Medieval swordfight would be brief. Combat between individuals would last no more than 20 to 30 seconds, and only if both were equally skilled fighters. A fight between a trained man and a semi-skilled one would rarely last ten seconds, and would likely be over in five.

Medieval fighters strive for powerful attacks. They do not use light techniques. Every strike is made to do damage. The power is needed for two reasons. First, power puts a man down fast. Light techniques may hurt, but they also waste time. Second, a soldier would often have to attack an armored opponent. Whether the armor was a leather jack, chain mail or plate armor, it took added strength to cause harm to the man inside the suit.

Wasters are wooden training swords, usually measuring two and a half feet long. A behourd is a limited form of a mounted or foot tournament, fought as a training exercise or an informal celebration-at-arms by squires and nobles. Behourds using wooden swords were settled by either a set number of counted blows, or until one or both combatants had been "satisfied" (i.e. had enough). Certain blows or manoeuvres using wooden swords were allocated set numbers of points.

Thrusts to the body, shoulder and face counted as three points

An immobilization or disarming was counted as three points

Thrusts to the rest of the body or wrists counted for one point

Strikes made with the use of the pommel or quillon also counted for one point

(Sources: Medieval Life and Times; Milihistriot Quarterly; Wikipedia)

Athelney Jones was a Scotland Yard inspector in ACD's "The Sign of Four". Holmes called him an imbecile but acknowledged that he was "tenacious as a lobster." Billy is Holmes' page and appeared in stories such as "The Valley of Fear" and "The Problem of Thor Bridge", as well as in plays and films. (Source: Wikipedia-Sherlock Holmes Minor Characters)

John's remedy for bruises is lifted from organicnutrition . co. uk. Comfrey, rich in allantoin, promotes wound healing and reduces swelling. Goatweed or St. Johns Wort, is known for its antibacterial and astringent properties and was used to dress sword cuts during the medieval ages. Cabbage is also known to have anti-inflammatory properties.

Aaannnddd...heads up, dears! The next chapter is going to be rated M! Until then!


	14. Chapter 13

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 13**

* * *

**Author's notes**: As promised, the story is now rated M. Please be advised.

Please see more author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

After supper, Monseigneur sat down to go through his letters and missives for the day.

He said, reading from a letter, "The wedding will take place three months from now, at the main cathedral in Glasstown. It has been decided by parliament that a mere three days later, the queen-consort shall be crowned in a separate ceremony. Ten days of public revelry and masques will follow. Then, a procession will make its way to Angria for the King to be crowned in Dùn Èideann. The bride is scheduled to arrive in Gaaldine three weeks before the wedding. Already, she must make haste with her preparations if she doesn't want to fall behind schedule. As for His Majesty…"

His eyes scrolled down the lengthy letter the King, his brother, had sent him. His lips twitched into a smirk as he said, "The King wishes to pay me a private visit as soon as possible. Panicking already, I see."

"His Majesty is most concerned with your fever, my lord," corrected Lestrade. "He has yet to hear of your recovery."

"I doubt if that's the actual reason why he is insisting on paying me a visit, no matter what he puts down on paper," remarked Monseigenur sardonically, tossing the parchment away after he was finished with it. "Remember, it was not exactly his idea to acquire Angria this way."

"Act of parliament." Lestrade nodded.

"In fact, there was an insane moment when he had volunteered me for the post of bridegroom, if you recall," continued Monseigneur in distaste. "Two weeks ago the negotiations had been in danger of foundering had the Angrian Queen not put her foot down and refuse to negotiate peace if my brother did not make himself available as the bridegroom. Come to think of it, he has shirked his responsibility long enough."

Silence for a time.

"Why such haste?" John finally asked from his corner of Monseigneur's quarters. "The wedding, I mean?"

To be sure, John was still angry and upset with the man. He had sworn he was not going to speak to the bastard again after what had happened at the bathing tent, but he had found himself slowly cooling down over supper, and the present conversation had gradually stoked his interest.

Supper had been a long and pleasant affair— a remarkable contrast to the atmosphere during dinner. After John's bout with Sir Athelney, a great change had wrought itself among the Gaaldinian knights and soldiers. Much of the earlier tension and animosity had dissipated, and John had been regarded with great curiosity and grudging admiration. Furthermore, Monseigneur had been disposed to be agreeable throughout the entire evening— a rare occurrence, indeed.

John would like to think that he didn't need the approval or friendship of these people; on the other hand, it had also been quite pleasant not to be regarded with such cold and stony stares by everyone around him.

Afterwards, Sir Athelney had pulled John aside to introduce him to the other knights. Names had been given, of which John could only remember a few- Gregson, Baynes, Moran, Jeavons. They had clamored for a chance to have a round or two with him with the sword, but this time, Monseigneur had refused.

Monseigneur had surprised John by saying in apparent jest, "What use is it to call off the war if each and every one of you would get to have your turn in being beaten to a bloody pulp by John Watson?"

Apparently, the knights had not known what to make of Monseigneur's jesting, either, and thinking their request still had a chance of being granted, had persisted in their petition until Monseigneur had told them quite flatly that he needed John for other, more important work.

_Of course_, John thought sourly. He should have known the man would refuse. It would be expecting too much of Monseigneur if he very kindly just gave in to other people's wishes.

So that had been that and now they were back at Monseigneur's quarters, with Monseigneur and Lestrade at the table littered with official documents and papers, with Billy off to one side of the tent preparing Monseigneur's night clothes, and John in another corner doing his best not to brood.

In reply to his question, Monseigneur said without looking up, "I would imagine the wedding has to be set as soon as possible, before either party has a sudden change of heart."

It was the first time Monseigneur had spoken to him throughout the entire evening. His tone sounded all right. Normal. As though what he had done to John in the bathing tent had been of little consequence.

John gave a soft snort and shook his head. The familiar feelings of anger and resentment were gradually returning, along with confusion and alarm over his own innate reactions.

He desperately needed to understand Monseigneur's motivations. Thus, during supper, in as much as John had been under observation, he had managed to do a little bit of observing on his own. He had watched these Gaaldinian men closely and had been astonished by the level of flippancy he had seen in their ways towards each other. There had been much friendly elbowing and slapping of shoulders and backs as the men had delved deeper into their cups. These gestures were familiar and all right, John supposed, but what to make of arms draped around each other, even hands lingering on friends' waists? Surely those gestures must be suspect? The rumors had not been exaggerated, then. Truly, these men seemed to indulge in a lot of untoward physical contact with each other— a trait that had earned these creatures much sniggering and talk among John's people.

This was what John had been suspicious of from the very start. Morality-wise, it was known far and wide that Gaaldinian men were very loose and permissive, and Monseigneur seemed the very epitome of their special kind of wickedness.

But what did that make of John's reaction to Monseigneur himself? Hadn't he reacted unusually and wickedly as well?

John could feel the heat slowly creeping over his face as he recalled the touch of Monseigneur's fingers on his bruised skin, as he remembered fighting the shudder that was not from revulsion or disgust at all. The memory of his treacherous body hardening at Monseigneur's touch.

The way it was hardening now at the mere thought of remembering it.

"Where are you going?" Monseigneur asked as John abruptly stood up and made for the doorway of the tent.

"Out," he replied curtly. "I need some air."

Lestrade stood up hastily, made his excuses and accompanied him out.

"All right, John?" he asked as soon as they were out in the open and away from prying eyes and ears.

"No!" snapped John.

He stopped for a bit and breathed deeply in the cool night air, striving for calm.

"It's been a long day for you, I know," said Lestrade. "It would be best to call it an early night and—"

"Look, just tell me straight up. Is he...is he..." John bit back on his words, knowing he would not be able to take them back once he had uttered them. They were nothing short of scandalous. Besides, he wasn't sure how to translate _co-sheòrsach_ effectively for Lestrade to understand.

Lestrade regarded him quizzically. "Is who what?" he asked.

John ran a hand through his hair.

_Fuck!_

Clearly, Lestrade was messing with him. The man could not have missed noticing Monseigneur's treatment of him. He could not be this daft.

"He touched me," John finally said. "After my bath."

Lestrade went very still. "Who—?" he began.

"You know damn well who!" John exploded. "Don't make me say his name out loud!"

Lestrade held up a hesitant hand to hover uncertainly in the air between them. "Where, exactly, did he touch you?" His tone was careful, wary.

"My flank," answered John. "He touched the bruises from our fight."

"Oh." Lestrade gave a sigh of relief as he let his hand drop. "Jesus, John, you can kill a man from all that suspense. And there I was thinking he may have touched you somewhere really serious."

John opened his mouth, shut it. Opened it again to ask, _"_Why?_ Why _would he think to touch me at all?"

"Listen, John, I know how it must look like, but really, it's not," said Lestrade tersely. "We have a curious practice of taking responsibility for certain actions— owning them, actually."

"Owning them?"

"Like what Monseigneur did to the bruises I inflicted on you," explained Lestrade. "He owned them, took them over from you. It's the equivalent of kissing a child's wound to take the hurt away. Some old wives' tales will have it that it takes away the malice from the wound and helps hasten the healing process. Not that I meant any malice when I punched you, of course. And you'll mend without incident, I'm sure."

"And he believes in that sort of thing?" asked John in disbelief.

"Probably not," agreed Lestrade, "but it's a gesture, John. We military people do it all the time to our subordinates. It's his way of— not apologizing— but recognizing your wounds."

"He said he wanted to 'know' them," muttered John.

"Recognizing, knowing— it's just like I said. Look, I know we must seem very strange to you," Lestrade said. "I am sure you will need time to get accustomed to our ways, just as we will need time to get used to yours. Give us a chance, John."

"So this means that he's not…into men?" said John at last, making his tone as neutral as he could.

"I don't think Monseigneur would see the issue the way we do. Come to think of it, and this will probably make him seem even stranger, but I don't think he's into either men or women," said Lestrade slowly. "But perhaps that's not the question at all here. Perhaps the real question is, do _you_ like men, or else why be so affected?"

"God, no!" That was rather blunt of Lestrade. John briefly considered telling him about Mary, but decided against it. It would be a defilement of sorts to have to drag Mary into this lurid discussion. A pause before he asked, "What about you? Do _you_ like men?"

"I'm married, John," said Lestrade dryly, "to my lady wife of fourteen years. I have two young daughters whom I do not get to see as often as I want to, and no sons. Which is why I've chosen my nephew to be my heir. Next question."

John said hesitantly, "What do you mean he's not into men or women? What's he into, then?"

Lestrade shrugged. "God only knows what goes on in that funny little brain of his," he muttered.

"You mean to say you don't know? You've been with him for years."

"I've been with him since he was seventeen, and no, I don't know what's going on inside his mind most of the time." Lestrade let out a heavy sigh. "He was betrothed once— a match made when he was a child— but the princess to whom he was promised to swore she'd rather become a nun after being in his presence for five minutes."

John gaped at him. "Are you telling me that after all this time, he's never had anyone?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"Good Lord," said John softly. Now that was news, indeed.

"And you don't have to give his words too much import if he says things like you're his man," said Lestrade. "He does that all the time. That's just one of his family's many eccentricities. If you're uncomfortable with his laying a claim on you, you have but to wait and realize it for what it is— a passing fancy. He'll be moving on to somebody or something else soon enough."

John merely stared at him.

Sensing that their interview was at an end, Lestrade reached out to give him an encouraging slap on the back. "No worries, John," he said. "Nobody's going to be at you unless you're willing."

John regarded him wryly, sensing that Lestrade was somehow laughing at his country bumpkin sensibilities. "See, that's the thing about you people that we don't understand," he said rather testily.

"Oh?"

"You say things like that and we imagine all sorts of things about you," John said.

"Such as?"

"Such as Gaaldinian men preferring men over women," said John baldly.

Lestrade considered his words for a moment. Unruffled he replied, "I suppose that would make us even," he said.

John raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

"We Gaaldinians have always thought that Angrians do it with their animals," said Lestrade with a wink before turning away. "Go to bed, John. You've just finished your first, full day of service to Monseigneur. I daresay you deserve your rest."

* * *

When John thought about it, Lestrade's explanations had not helped clear the situation in the slightest. John had emerged from their conversation as unenlightened about Gaaldinian men as when he first started talking to Lestrade. As for Lestrade's explanation about Monseigneur's preferences or lack thereof, John was not convinced. Worse, his body did not believe it.

That night he slept fitfully, his subconscious taking over what he could not bring himself to examine while awake, presenting him with a myriad selection of images and sceneries of pure fantasy that were best kept sealed away in his sleeping mind.

He dreamt that he was in Glasstown for the royal wedding, but it seemed everybody had the same idea— the Gaaldinian capital was brimming with people by the time he arrived that there was not a single bed to be had in any tavern or inn that he happened across.

After an entire day of scouring for a place to stay, John had no choice but to follow the examples of several men and crash in the back alleys in between some buildings. Hardly a fitting thing to do, considering that this was his first time in Glasstown, but given how much money he had with him, John figured he could probably only afford to sleep a night or two in a bed offered by the most humble hovel in the great city. It came as a shock that everything could be so expensive here. He had not been prepared for it. Thus, with very little option available to him, John settled down in the shadows of the building walls, amid the smell of cool earth faintly intermingling with the sharper tang of sweating, unwashed bodies pressed close together.

He was not going to reason out why he had chosen to come here, to begin with. Such questions were not asked in dreams. All that mattered was he was here, in a strange but exciting city he had heard of all his life but had never thought it possible to visit.

Everyone had come for the nuptial celebrations, to see the King in his scarlet and gold finery and the Queen in her shining robes encrusted with precious stones, set to unite Gaaldine and Angria into one undivided nation. Ten days of revelry and jousts and masques, with firecrackers being set off to much music and dancing in the streets alongside great bonfires lit in the night. Everybody had come for the royal largesse of free food and drink and money sprinkled to crowds of outstretched hands along the nuptial procession, scheduled several days away. This was the setting where destinies were fulfilled and opportunities seized. Who knew what kind of people one could meet in the crowds? A prospective employer. A friend. A lover.

The current crowd that John was in was a rough one, though— men, young and old thrown in together, alone or clustered in small groups, sitting against or leaning on the walls, chatting, gambling, drinking. Some were shabbily dressed, others not quite so, but all of them were homeless in the great city and seeking shelter amidst these walls as twilight encroached. It suited a man who had brought almost nothing with him except a small bundle of possessions. He really did not have anything much to lose.

And it was here, in this most incongruous of places, that _he _came sweeping in.

John was hungry. He was contemplating getting up and finding a place to buy some bread when a faint din of noise sounded down the alley.

A man, in richly tailored dark clothes, was striding down the narrow alley, looking at the men slouched or huddled against the walls as though he were searching for someone. Some of the ragamuffin men stared back at him, but left him alone upon seeing that he was armed with a sword. And he was not alone: another man was close behind him, guarding him from possible attack.

He was a tall man, obviously a rich gentleman at the very least, with dark, curling hair. The features of his narrow, pale face were hidden behind a black mask. John saw the mask and felt a familiar feeling starting at the pit of his stomach: a slow, dark coil of desire. He had a feeling that he knew this man.

And the man, passing by him, slowed down to rake his pale eyes over John's form as though he, too, recognized him. Their gaze met, held. John did not know how long they stared at each other— a few seconds, an eternity.

Finally, the man said in a voice plush as black velvet, "You. Come with me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere of my choosing."

John found himself standing up, feeling a strange exhilaration coursing through him, untainted by doubt or fear. As things happened in dreams where the dreamer was granted a special sort of omniscience, it instantly occurred to John what the man was doing here: he was choosing a lover, to please and satisfy him for a single night.

And of all the people here, this man had chosen him.

As dreams went, the rule of logic did not apply to anything. John followed the man down the alley that branched out into smaller side alleys like a maze and felt none of the conflict he thought he ought to feel- the sense of strangeness, of the unfamiliarity of being with another man, the outrage that he would be propositioned like this. It did not occur to him to question or doubt, or even think that he had never done this before.

It did not occur to him to think that this was wrong. Not when it felt so right.

He wanted this man, and the man had chosen him.

That was all there was to it.

"Cover me," said the man to his companion, and John turned to see the grey-haired bodyguard behind them, also masked, give a slight nod of his head and turn his back on them.

He knew this man as well, but before John could stop to really think about it, the man in black had pulled him into a dark, quiet side alley. John felt his breathing quicken as the man put up a gloved finger against his lips.

"Silence is the name of the game," said the familiar stranger.

John stared back at him then nodded to show that he understood. He heard a soft sigh escape his mouth as he felt the man's fingers caress the side of his face gently.

For all that he wanted silence, the man was far from silent himself. "You're not from around here, are you?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper, one finger trailing down to trace the line of John's jaw.

John swallowed, shook his head.

A brief smile etched itself on those distinctively chiseled lips. The man's eyes were hungry, intense, never leaving John's face for a second as he continued his whispers: "You've come in search of something. Or someone. As I have. And now I've found you. I wish to know you, John. Let me."

"Ho-hold on," John said as he finally broke his vow of silence. "You... know my name?"

"As you know mine," replied the stranger. "Go ahead and say it."

John shook his head, a vestige of memory telling him he ought to refuse.

The fingers on his face tightened an increment. "Say it," repeated the masked man whose face was only inches from John's. "I know you want to, John. I want to hear you say it. Say my name."

"My lord," John said at last, his voice a half groan.

There. It did not feel so bad after all, giving in.

"Yes," breathed Monseigneur.

_Monseigneur. Yes, that's his name_, a voice inside John's head whispered irrelevantly.

John watched, fascinated, as Monseigneur angled his head, bringing it closer towards him.

At the last moment, John felt that vestigial instinct deep inside him once again, telling him to resist, pushing him to make some sort of protest-a last front- at what was about to happen.

"Wait," he said, pulling his head back. "But, you…I— I'm a man."

It wasn't the most eloquent of protests. Certainly, it did very little to make the man in front of him see sense. "So am I," murmured Monseigneur before he swooped in to claim John's mouth.

At first touch, the kiss was warm and wet, given by an open mouth, effectively drowning out whatever puny resistance that still resided within John. From the very start, there was nothing tentative about that kiss. Monseigneur did not waste time— he tilted his head to secure John's mouth more fully with his own and, with gentle but absolute certainty, his tongue snaked out to trace John's lips before delving deeper to lick them open.

A sound— hungry, needy— escaped John's throat as he lifted hands to plunge into the man's hair _(Soft. Oh, so soft)._ He felt the man's tongue inside his mouth, tasting him so thoroughly, tangling roughly with his own. He had never been kissed like this before— it was a heady experience. John felt dizzy, winded, wanted. He wanted more.

He gasped as he felt a hand slide down to touch him through his woolen trousers. All the while Monseigneur was ravishing his mouth with such gentle savagery, John felt the palm of his hand sliding slowly, enticingly, over his hardening length.

Tearing his mouth away at last, John looked down as Monseigneur roughly took hold of his trousers, yanking them down to his thighs, exposing his undergarments. Impatiently, Monseigneur worked the front flap of his braies open— the work of a moment— and then John could feel Monseigneur's hand on his aching cock at last.

"You may give yourself all sorts of excuses, but we both know this is what you've wanted the very first time we met," Monseigneur whispered into his ear. "You can lie to yourself all you want, John, but you can never lie to me."

An incoherent sound escaped John's lips as Monseigneur's hand began to move. Ah, but wait. A surprise that had John crying out— Monseigneur's hand was still gloved, and the velvety feel of the fabric sliding over his length was almost too much.

"Good?" whispered Monseigneur against John's throat. "Does it feel good?"

John could not bring himself to utter a word, merely gave out a groan as he felt Monseigneur caress him to full hardness.

"Look at you," said Monseigneur, his voice hoarse, not in full control of himself as well. "Just look at you, John."

But John could not stop looking at Monseigneur. The mask could not hide the way his pale eyes were now heavy lidded with lust and desire, the way his mouth had gone soft, slightly parted. At that moment, John wanted to know what lay behind the mask— he needed his lover's face naked. Instinctively, he reached up to touch the mask, only to have Monseigneur jerk his head away as though burned.

"No," he growled.

"But I want to see you," whispered John. "Why won't you let me?"

"You don't have to see," murmured Monseigneur. "You have but to feel me."

With that, he brought John full against the wall, crushing him in place with his fully-clothed body, allowing no movement except his own.

"Feel me, John," growled Monseigneur, gloved hands on either side of John's face.

And John did. Every inch of Monseigneur's arousal, exquisitely trapped in linen and silk, straining against every inch of John's own naked flesh, his hips moving in a slow, delicious grind that had both of them panting against each other's mouths, their foreheads touching.

_Yes. Oh God, yes_, thought John as he felt Monseigneur beginning to thrust against him. He moved his head forward slightly to take Monseigneur's mouth with his own. _Just like that. Yes. Just—_

* * *

He wasn't sure what it was that woke him. All he knew was that he had abruptly come awake to find that he was grinding himself into his pallet, his blankets strewn all around him.

The tent was dark and quiet. A tense moment as John lay suddenly still, listening… listening to see if anyone else was awake. Off to his side came the reassuring sound of Billy's soft snores as he lay on his own pallet a few feet away, arms thrown out about him. Across the tent, the dim figure swaddled in blankets on Monseigneur's bed was still and unmoving.

Breathing deeply, John relaxed back slowly onto his pallet.

_A dream_, he told himself as his heart continued its mad gallop inside his chest. _Nothing but a dream..._

The erection between his legs did not agree. Dream or no dream, it stood stiff and raging, begging silently to be put out of its misery. John put his trembling hands to rub at his burning face, waiting impatiently for several, long minutes for his arousal to subside, but damn it to hell, it would _not._

John finally decided enough was enough and, taking himself in hand, worked himself quickly and efficiently into an urgent rhythm, spilling into the cup of his hand after just five strokes in a shuddering, wet ecstasy, his mouth open against his pillow in a silent scream. John finally subsided as the last of the spasms left him. Exhausted, he fished out the small piece of linen handkerchief that Billy always placed in the pockets of his trousers to wipe at his hand.

In the unbroken silence of early morning, John lay on his side, quivering, spent, feeling strangely whole. For the time being, he was surprisingly unable to feel guilt or remorse at his dream, or at the discovery that a part of himself that he had long regarded as dead had suddenly come alive again. He knew it was very, very wrong to feel this way, but there it was.

The realization that perhaps the fault lay more with him rather than with Monseigneur made him want to weep. But John's tired mind could not even cling on to this scrap of insight, sudden and unwelcome. Not when it was barely three o'clock in the morning.

John closed his eyes and did not resist the pull of sleep as it gathered him back into its deep, dark depths. There would be plenty of time to feel the guilt and outrage in their entirety in the full light of morning.

* * *

**Author's notes**: _Dùn Èideann_ is Scottish Gaelic for Edinburgh, while_ co-sheòrsach_ pertains to a gay person, whether a man or a woman. Glasstown or Glass Town is the capital of the federation of countries in the imaginary worlds of the Bronte children, and part of their juvenile writings has been collected under the title _The Glasstown Confederacy_. Glasstown is also a play of words around "Glaston", a rural village in the East Midlands of England, with strong connections to the Duke of Wellington and his family.

The setting of John's dream is lifted from a French film whose title must be withheld for the time being.

An interesting point about men's trousers that were worn during the medieval ages: zippers did not exist, and almost at the last minute while writing the M part of the chapter, it occurred to me to check whether flies had already been designed for these garments during those times (for how else would Monseigneur go about undressing John?). True enough, there were no flies (as we know them) on medieval trousers! This feature had yet to make its debut during the Regency period. I swear, this little detail made the M scene a great deal more difficult to write. (LOL)

The male undergarments of those times were also very interesting. By then, the loincloth had been replaced by loose, trouser-like clothing called _braies_, which the wearer stepped into and then laced or tied around the waist and legs at about mid-calf. By the time of the Renaissance, braies had become shorter and were usually fitted with a front flap that was buttoned or tied closed. This _codpiece_ allowed men to urinate without having to remove the braies completely. As time went by, codpieces became larger and more ornate. In this chapter, I chose to keep things as simple as possible so as not to hinder Monseigneur and John's encounter. ^_~ (Source: Trousers and Undergarments- Wikipedia)

**Jan 13, 2013**: Hi everyone! Just a teeny note. I can't believe I just did it, after years and years of not drawing anything. I finally got to draw Monseigneur! If you'd like to see him, please do drop by my tumblr (Nana_41175 . tumblr . com). Please remove spaces in between the dots. He's the icon for this story as well. I hope you like him!


	15. Chapter 14

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 14**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! Sisi, I have posted my (lengthy) reply to your comment over at the reviews section. Thanks for writing to tell me how you feel about the story. Please do send me signed reviews if you can so that I can send you a PM, but if it's not possible, I'd be happy to reply to your comments either here or in the reviews section. Many thanks!

Also, in case you haven't come across the mini-updates posted late into the last chapter, I have drawn some pictures of Monseigneur and John. If you'd like to see them, please look them up either at my tumblr account (Nana_41175 . tumblr . com) or at DeviantART (nana41175. deviantart . com). Please delete spaces from the dots. More author's notes at the end of the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

John gradually awoke to the sound of low murmuring.

Lestrade: "Are you _quite_ sure, my lord?"

"Quite. You don't need to worry. I've already written a missive to Lady Hudson, informing her of my return as soon as possible. Make sure to inform His Majesty immediately so that he will be able to adjust his plans accordingly; otherwise, you shall find yourself saddled with him here without me," said Monseigneur.

"Yes, my lord," said Lestrade.

John was not sure what time it was. It couldn't be that late— perhaps only six o'clock in the morning. Billy was already up and about, pouring out some water into a porcelain basin for Monseigneur.

For a while longer he kept still, eyes closed, his back to Lestrade and Monseigneur, listening to the murmur of that voice. Just listening and refusing to think and to remember what he had dreamed of only a few hours earlier.

"I will need you to keep your eyes and ears open, Lestrade," continued Monseigneur. "Needless to say, whatever transpires between the four of us shall remain within the confines of this tent and must not reach other ears. Especially when it comes to anything concerning John."

John felt his ears prick up at the mention of his name. He opened his eyes, suddenly alert.

"Of course, my lord."

"Pay close attention to the knights," instructed Monseigneur. John could hear him getting up from the bed and moving about. The sound of water splashing as he washed his face. "Are you sure you can answer to all the soldiers under you?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Even Sally Donovan?"

"Sally is not going to be a problem."

"Make sure she doesn't," said Monseigneur darkly, and John felt something like dread brush at him with cold fingertips. "You've instructed her not to tell a soul about her excursion with John in the forest?"

"Of course, sir. She did not know the exact nature of her errand. She still doesn't."

"What about that fool, Anderson? Doesn't he know anything?"

"Even if he does, I will make sure the knowledge will go no farther from him," said Lestrade. "I can handle my men, sir. And women. I will answer for them."

"Good."

A pause, then: "What are our plans for today, my lord?"

"I thought I might do some hawking while I'm here," said Monseigneur. "With John."

John frowned, felt the dread sink its icy claws deeper into him.

"As soon as he's finished lounging about, pretending to be still asleep," continued Monseigneur with a hint of sly amusement in his voice.

John sighed and slowly turned himself around to face them with bleary eyes.

"Good morning!" called Monseigneur cheerily. "Slept well last night?"

The sense of dread suddenly fisted itself tightly around John's heart.

_Fuck it, he knows! How could he know…?!_

"I wasn't pretending to be asleep," he grumbled, sitting up. He kept a tight lid on his sudden panic and ignored Monseigneur's question.

Mercifully, the man opted not to pursue the matter.

"Well, do get up or the best part of the day will be gone before you know it," said Monseigneur. "We'll have breakfast here before we go. Billy can pack us some lunch to take away with us."

"We'll…be gone a long time?" asked John, glancing at Lestrade before bringing his gaze back to Monseigneur. "Just us?"

"Lestrade's too busy with affairs around the garrison, and Billy has his own set of chores that will keep him occupied for the rest of the day," said Monseigneur. "It would be a deadly bore hanging about camp and not doing anything, wouldn't you agree?"

Lestrade was as reluctant about the idea as John. "Really, my lord? Just the two of you?" he said doubtfully. "After everything we've just discussed."

Monseigneur smiled. "Let them try to get to me while John Watson is by my side," he said, turning away to change his clothes.

John frowned in puzzlement. He was sure he was not quite following the conversation.

John stared at Lestrade, who only nodded in resignation. "Bring along a sword, just to be sure, John," was all he said.

John was missing something here, he was sure of it. There was a _frisson_ of tension in the air, and an added edge in the way Monseigneur was moving about and talking. His cheerfulness had a determined quality about it that rang false.

What could it all mean?

Without another word, John got up.

* * *

After breakfast, they saddled their horses and rode out just as day was breaking over the horizon.

Azrail, freed from her hood, was perched on Monseigneur's gauntleted hand. She did not need any inducement to take to the air as soon as Monseigneur tossed her up. John watched her go: her dark-tipped wings going _flap, flap_ and then she was sailing up in a smooth arc, soaring away into the mauve and pink and pale orange-yellow of the dawn sky.

John felt the cool, cleansing air whip at his hair and sting his cheeks as they rode out, following Azrail, and he felt the burden that he carried in his heart lighten considerably.

Lestrade was right. This was just what he needed— open air and lots of ground to separate him physically from Monseigneur instead of being trapped in the claustrophobic interiors of garrison tents where his presence loomed continually, stalking John at every turn.

The ride across the flat plains was largely a silent one. For a while, John was drunk on the heady freedom of being out in the open, and Monseigneur was keeping his own counsel. When his mind was sufficiently clear, John glanced across him at the man astride that big, black brute of a horse known only as the Beast, and finally allowed himself to look at the dream he had had the previous night in the calm, clear perspective of the day's first light.

Of course, the dream was pure madness no matter which way one looked at it.

John had heard people referring to dreams as a window into the most secret and inaccessible corners of one's thoughts, and what dominated his dream was an entity that lived in the shadows of his mind- his dark half, an utter stranger that he could barely recognize, filled with strange and wanton desires, heedless of any good sense. Someone whom John did not understand, and thus, feared.

Someone who would find it acceptable to capitulate so easily to Monseigneur. A base creature that craved what was forbidden and who must be restrained at all cost, who must be locked safely away inside John's mind.

It was, of course, extremely disturbing to realize that he had the capacity to feel this way towards Monseigneur, deep down inside. At this point, it was easy to give in and let himself be overwhelmed with repulsion and self-loathing. Instead, he quelled those feelings and concentrated on making sense of _why_ he had the dream instead.

Doubtless, the dream had been fueled by the hectic goings-on of the last few days and emotions both fevered and unbalanced that could only be brought about by Monseigneur. For now, it was enough that John had been able to keep a tight leash on his emotions during waking moments; after all, he could not be held responsible for what he dreamt of, night after night. And certainly, he could not be held responsible for Monseigneur's actions that had brought about all the malarkey in the first place.

The man was a walking calamity. He had the power to draw people to him and cause wide-scale confusion and havoc. Worst of all, Monseigneur knew it— he knew the effect he had over people and he knew how to wield this power like a weapon.

But John knew that just because he had a sexual dream about this man, however disturbing it was, did not mean he ought to run for the hills, screaming his head off in a panic over his manhood like an outraged virgin. A virgin he most definitely wasn't. More than anything, he needed to keep his wits about him. Admittedly, it was something that he had not been good at doing in the past few days. He had been too close to the man, had been overwhelmed by him.

He knew (why bother denying it when it was so painfully obvious?) that at the very core of this problem lay an unnatural attraction that had manifested itself almost at the very beginning of their acquaintance. But John was a soldier. He knew the ways and the various kinds of attachments that men— cooped up together for so long with no women to alleviate their urges— were capable of forming amongst themselves.

But that was just lust mostly, and lust could be dealt with properly. Knowing and acknowledging Monseigneur's effect on his person was actually vital, as John could move past it now and start to contemplate various means by which he could protect himself from the man. There was no mistaking the signs: they were at war with each other, still. Right here, right now.

Everything John was feeling towards him was a bodily reaction— a physical need that could be quenched periodically with physical means, but the dream had served a purpose— it was a warning to John by letting him know what he was capable of feeling for Monseigneur. It was useless to shirk away from it, but it had to be acted on, guarded from any possibility of actually being carried out.

Clever, John realized now, the way Monseigneur had steadily crept past his defenses by throwing things along his path to tempt him away from his resolve: the privileges only royalty could bestow, the behourd, the acceptance and friendship of the people around him— Lestrade, Billy.

And finally, there was the man himself. Useless to hold back the admission that he was drawn to Monseigneur, but while the man may have resurrected his libido, John's heart was a different thing altogether.

That part of him was dead, and in a way, he was glad. It was safe from Monseigneur because it had died and was buried along with Mary. It could not be resurrected only to die a second time. It was broken in all places and could break no further. If he really wanted it, Monseigneur was welcome to a thing damaged beyond repair.

* * *

After nearly two hours, Monseigneur finally broke the silence to ask, "What do you need to find in the forest to make your medicines?"

They had slowly cantered to a halt along a meadow, green and fragrant with new grass and dotted with small white and yellow flowers.

The question was so unexpected that it took a moment for John to think it through. "I…there are a lot of ingredients we can make use of, depending on the situation that presents itself. I can't really just name them all right now and—"

"Name the most essential ones that you will need to formulate your poison antidote."

John shook his head incredulously at Monseigneur's words, as though he had just been commanded to name all the stars in the heavens then and there. "The antidotes will differ for different poisons," he said. "Everybody knows that. I mean, for example, the White Star will work for Nightshade poisoning but I doubt if it can—"

"What if I were to tell you that I am working on a universal antidote?" interrupted Monseigneur.

John began to scoff, then peered into Monseigneur's masked visage more closely. "You're serious," he murmured.

A flash of annoyance: "Of course I'm perfectly serious, John! I'd let you know if I'm in the mood for anything otherwise."

"You really think you can do that? Develop an actual panacea for poison? How far along are you into it?"

Monseigneur blew out a breath. "It's not working properly yet," he admitted, "but I believe the White Star will add considerably to its efficacy. Tell me you haven't used it all up just to make this."

He produced John's small bottle of antidote. "I will need more than this to conduct my experiments into its efficacy," Monseigneur continued.

"Yes, actually…well, no." John suddenly remembered the single flower he had found in his bag the other day and tucked away in his pocket. Instinctively, he thrust his hand into his pocket now, only to encounter the soggy handkerchief that he had used last night.

"I must have left it in my other trousers," he said, quickly withdrawing his hand from his pocket. "But it's just a single flower. I doubt if it will come to any good use."

"Lestrade can use it to show to his soldiers. I've asked him to form a search team made up of people he can absolutely trust. They will be combing the forest for it, along with anything else you may care to mention."

"It would be a lot quicker if I were to go to the forest with them," offered John. "It would also help lessen any mistakes they might make in obtaining specimens."

Monseigneur shook his head. "We don't have time, John," he said. "We're leaving tomorrow."

John frowned. "Leaving?" he repeated.

"We're going home," said Monseigneur. "To Wolf's Lair."

"Why so soon?" John wanted to know.

The man was silent for a moment. Then he finally said, "It can't come soon enough. There is a spy tucked away in the garrison. I have reason to believe it's one of the knights."

John stared at Monseigneur in astonishment as he felt everything begin to fall in place at last. "That was why you arranged for the behourd yesterday, wasn't it?" he said carefully. "You wanted to flush him out."

"Yes."

That explained Monseigneur's sudden disappearance from the crowd at the end of the joust, then. He had wondered about it.

"So what did you find out?"

"Nothing much." There was frustration in Monseigneur's voice. "I couldn't narrow it down to a single person. I thought the fight would help expose an unguarded moment when all attention was diverted to you, but I couldn't make out who it was in the crowd, and in the process I exposed you to undue harm."

More astonishment as the meaning of Monseigneur's words sank in.

"You think he'll come after me?" said John.

"Why not? You're the one who healed me. You're in their way now, too," said Monseigneur.

"So that was the reason why you wouldn't allow further jousting matches," said John. He felt a bit foolish now, thinking Monseigneur had refused on the grounds of proprietary interest and sheer, perverse meanness, like a brat unwilling to share a new toy.

He thought for a moment. "You don't suppose it may be Sir Athelney Jones?"

Monseigneur shook his head. "He would have been too obvious," he said thoughtfully, in a rush, as though he were talking to himself, "not to mention too stupid. No, it's somebody else, somebody who is cunning and stealthy enough to escape my attention, and all it will take for him to do his job is to nick a little bit of your skin and God only knows what kind of poison he will use this time around, perhaps something that may not even have an antidote…"

John stared in speechless surprise as Monseigneur abruptly stopped speaking and looked away. He could not believe what he was hearing. "You're… concerned about me," he said.

"You're my man, John. Why should I not be concerned about you?" replied Monseigneur a bit defensively.

Stunned silence from John.

Monseigneur continued, "If you know me well enough, you will understand that I am not a nervous man. I don't jump at shadows. At the same time, it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. And it is indeed close. Too close for comfort. Now tell me what you will need for your antidotes."

John told him, ticking off the ingredients as they came to mind, anything that he thought would be of use.

Monseigneur nodded. "I know most of the items you've mentioned, and the rest can be obtained within Gaaldine and Gondal, if necessary. Arrangements can be made easily enough to get them," he said. "Everything except the White Star."

"And some mushrooms, I would expect," said John.

"How deep in the forest were you when you found the flowers?"

"Very deep. Around two days before I emerged onto these parts," said John. "That would mean they're to be found closer to the Angrian border, and well away from light."

"I will tell Lestrade."

Silence once again as Monseigneur lifted his head to scan the early morning sky for a sign of Azrail. John did not know what his feelings were about going away from these parts, perhaps forever. He was torn between anxiety and a strong curiosity about Monseigneur's country, his home.

More than that, a strange sense of wonder and adventure was gradually taking hold of him. Treacherous, treacherous wonder.

At last, a speck in the clear, early morning sky. The strange, piercing whistle sounded from Monseigneur's lips as they spotted Azrail gliding above them. The very same whistle that John had heard for the first time yesterday, when he was down on his knees in front of this man. He could not believe it had only been yesterday.

The sharp whistle startled a rabbit out of hiding amongst the tall grasses a few feet away. It bounded across the grassy plain just as Azrail started her descent towards them.

A different whistle issued from Monseigneur's lips and Azrail instantly changed course, homing in on the rabbit instead.

"There she goes," Monseigneur murmured, pride clearly evident in his soft voice.

John watched, fascinated, as Azrail swooped down, talons extended in front of her, intercepting the rabbit perfectly in its path. A brief and violent little scuffle in the grass, and it was over very quickly.

They dismounted from their horses and made their way to where Azrail was still struggling with the rabbit, her talons caught in its flesh.

"Doucement, mon coeur," Monseigneur said in a voice smooth as honey as he extracted the rabbit from the excited bird's clutches. "Doucement."

He gave the rabbit to John and coaxed Azrail onto his gauntleted hand, tossing strips of ready meat to feed her from a pouch strapped to his waist.

"Amazing," murmured John.

"Isn't she?" agreed Monseigneur as he tenderly smoothed down the bird's ruffled feathers with a gloved hand.

John stared at those long fingers and felt something twist sharply in his chest as he suddenly remembered his dream. Of the same long, gloved fingers stroking the side of his face tenderly. Stroking, feeling _him._

The memory— sudden, sharp, erotic— came almost simultaneously with a realization that took his breath away.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "You know, I'm not Azrail."

Monseigneur turned to him. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

"I'm not a hawk," said John, frowning at him. "I'm a man."

"I can see that," said Monseigneur, the tone of his voice turning ever so slightly into a drawl. "Your point, John?"

"I know what you're doing. You don't have to break me into my role," said John. "You don't have to wrap me around your finger so tightly just to get me to serve you."

"Don't I?" said Monseigneur, his voice soft. "From the way you were responding to me in the past few days, I do beg to differ."

"Well, that's because you've been so…_so…!"_

_Alarming. Dangerous. Disturbing. Exciting..._

Any of these descriptions would have sufficed but none of them could be said out loud.

Before he could say anything further, Monseigneur continued, "And you're right, John. You're lucky you're not a hawk. I won't have to resort to sewing your eyes shut, or do any of the brutal things Azrail had to go through before she learned proper obedience. In fact, you're luckier than most captives because we share a common language. Imagine if you were somebody like Sally Donovan, separated from her mother and brought to Gondal as a little girl, knowing not a word of the languages spoken around her. But that does not mean you will have it easier, with me. In fact, I shall expect more from you. A great deal more. Make it easy on yourself or make it hard, the choices are up to you. That is your one prerogative as a man."

John shook in a breath. "You're really very arrogant, aren't you?" he said.

Monseigneur nodded. "Very," he agreed. "I'd suggest you stop fighting me as the outcome is inevitably the same. But I don't think you'd heed my suggestion."

John merely shook his head in agreement.

Quite unexpectedly, Monseigneur smiled. "That's what I like about you, John," he said. "Since we met, I've not been bored by you. That's quite an achievement right there."

He gazed thoughtfully into John's eyes, clear and bright blue and defiant under blond brows while his own features were shielded away by his mask. "You're so proud, John," he murmured. "So pure and steadfast in your belief that you should never give in to me. Not a single inch. But then you haven't been to the Lair yet. I shall look forward to the time when I can make you obey me in everything. Best of all, you will find yourself most willing to do so."

John did not care to think of the effect of Monseigneur's words on his person-the feeling, almost, of anticipation that it elicited. He said, his voice quite cool, controlled, "Don't hold your breath."

Monseigneur merely gave him a smile.

* * *

They returned to the garrison late in the afternoon, tired and hungry and dusty.

Luckily, Billy had not yet brought John's trousers from the previous day to the washers, and John was able to extract the single white flower from its linen casing inside one of the pockets. He gave this to Monseigneur, who mounted it on a piece of parchment paper and gave it, in turn, to Lestrade, with instructions.

A hot bath and some supper. Then to bed early.

They were back on the saddle at first light the next day, a long journey ahead of them. A few parting words with Lestrade, who would have to remain behind to tend to the camp as it dismantled, then Monseigneur was turning the Beast around, heading out of the garrison in full gallop, with John and Billy close behind him.

Heading for the Lair.

Heading for home.

* * *

**More author's notes:** The search for a universal remedy or **panacea** is one of the defining objectives in the practice of **Alchemy**, an influential philosophical tradition whose early practitioners' claims to profound powers were known since times of antiquity. The objectives of alchemy are varied, ranging from the transmutation of common metals into gold to the discovery of a universal solvent, among other things. Western alchemy is recognized as a protoscience that contributed to the development of modern chemistry and medicine. Alchemists developed a framework of theory, terminology, experimental process and basic laboratory techniques that are still recognizable today. During the Middle Ages when science and chemistry as we know them today hardly existed, I chose to have Monseigneur dabbling in a bit of alchemy instead. And although we know that a universal cure for all poisons is impossible to develop in real life, let us make it possible in this story. (Source: Wikipedia)

Monseigneur's phrase "It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you" is lifted from ACD's The Final Problem.

I lifted some details on hawking from Medieval Hunting History and The Modern Apprentice, which gave a summary of how to train a falcon or hawk to hunt: The falcon or hawk was first acclimatized to the presence of men, horses, and dogs (this is the stage where their eyes were sewn shut). After it had gotten accustomed to people, it was fastened to a string by one leg, and, being allowed to fly a short distance, was repeatedly recalled to the lure by whistles and other signals-usually in the form of a mock bird, where it always found food. In falconry, as in venery, great care was taken to make sure that the falcon or hawk will focus on the prey and not leave the game it was after in order to pursue another which might come its way. Normally the birds do not bring the prey back to the falconer. The bird is trained to follow the falconer while he tries to flush game. Much of what will be caught is larger than the bird can carry. It is the falconer's job to go find where the bird caught the quarry. Sometimes the bird needs help controlling or dispatching it and the falconer will assist here, too. (Special thanks to Soror Noctis for calling my attention to this detail!)

_Doucement_: gently, or slowly.


	16. Chapter 15

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 15**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! Your messages always make my day. I hope you will enjoy John's little homecoming! More authors' notes at the end.

* * *

It took them three days to reach the Lair: three days and two nights of almost non-stop travel that had them alternating between riding on horseback and in covered carriages, depending on the weather and terrain. By the end of the first day, there was even a stint on a royal barge that carried them down a long stretch of river, the waters turning black as the sun sank steadily in the horizon and finally died. This, Monseigneur said, was the quickest and safest route as they left the border country behind them. The choice was either the river or a patch of rough mountains, crawling with bandits and highwaymen. It was hardly a decision that required much thought.

The nights were spent in the manor houses of trusted local lords, carefully handpicked by Monseigneur and Lestrade— short, fleeting night stays when they arrived late and left very early the next day to proceed with the next phase of their journey. Their small party gradually swelled in number as their hosts assigned them guards to escort them from one place to the next. It was clearly no laughing matter to arrange such an enterprise. John could only imagine the level of organization that had gone into the planning of this trip. Lestrade was a very capable man, indeed, if he could bring all of this about in the time John suspected was given to him. Of course, there were minor hiccups along the way— Billy's horse had to cast a shoe at a most inconvenient time, which had grounded them in a small town and delayed their journey; minor accidents when horses and riders slipped and fell from steep and stony paths.

Yet through it all, what John would always remember of that first trip was the way Gaaldine seemed to unfold before him in all her spring glory like a lady's elaborate fan being slowly opened, one blade at a time. The stretches of vast forests filled with dark, melancholy pine in the north, seen at a distance as they rode past, gradually gave way to greener, leafier trees as they progressed south.

The weather, too, changed and grew warmer as they descended farther into the Gaaldinian plains and valleys. Soon they had to remove their thick cloaks and roll up their heavy sleeves. John watched as picturesque little villages beside the river gave way to bustling towns before breaking out into fields bursting with color— flower and vegetable farms, innumerable orchards— before thinning out once again into flat, green plains where flocks of sheep grazed. They passed all of these and more on their way to Elderidge— the coastal town abutting Wolf's Lair.

And so it was that the sun was setting on the third day when they finally caught sight of the town from a hill some distance away. The small town, nestled in the valley formed by these low hills on one side and the sea on the other, was just beginning to light up slowly against the encroaching night, and John thought he had never seen such a pretty sight. He had lived far too long in the solitude of quiet forests, landlocked on all sides. For him, the sea, especially, was a thing imagined— an abstract idea— for most of his life.

Turning his attention away from the town, he caught his first glimpse of the Lair, at last. It was set farther away, up an imposingly craggy promontory that was the last bit of land before the sea swept in. It was a huge fortress of a castle, its rambling silhouette dark against the day's fading light. From their vantage point, it seemed to John that it did, indeed, resemble something of a prowling animal crouched over the town of Elderidge— like a wolf about to spring upon its prey, or hovering protectively over its young, depending on how one looked at things.

Beside John, Monseigneur reined in the ever-impatient Beast, his eyes cast in the same direction as John's. He remarked with the smallest suggestion of a sigh in his deep voice, "Ah, the final stretch of the journey. I daresay it's about time."

He brought his crop down sharply on the Beast, who needed no further urging. They rode into Elderidge, slowing down as they passed the main streets where people gathered by the side to see and gape at the spectacle of their Lord returning from his journeys. Throughout that short trip, John could see the effort it took for Monseigneur to hold back the fatigue, his impatience at having to slow down and parade himself and his men in front of the townsfolk— a necessary evil. All throughout their voyage, Monseigneur had to show himself to the people around him, and John had the distinct impression that he disliked being stared at by strangers.

Monseigneur spurred the Beast on as soon as they left the town behind. They broke out into a gallop once again, up over the craggy hill where the Lair loomed ever larger as they drew near.

Until this moment, John had not really known what to expect of Wolf's Lair. He had imagined an abode black and bleak, set upon some lonely mountain encased in a miasma of treacherous mist and barbed vegetation to trap the unwary traveler— something dramatically desolate as befitting the dwelling place of a demon prince in a fairy tale. After all, there were old castles, intact and ruined, all over Angria which would have met John's particular set of expectations. What he had not expected was _this_, although in retrospect, he would wonder how he could imagine anything otherwise_._

They had to ride through an avenue of silver birch, tall enough on either side for the trees to interlock branches high above their heads, before they could reach the main gateway of the castle, open in readiness for the master's return.

Directly inside was a vast outer court with the royal stables on one end and an outbuilding—possibly the mews— on the other. Servants with torches were already waiting there, yet they proceeded on horseback towards the moat and the narrowed passageway of the barbican, lit with flaming torches, and on into the inner gate, which led to the main stone courtyard in front of the castle's huge metal doors.

A flurry of servants attended to their steeds as they finally dismounted. John handed over the reins of his horse to a waiting groom and turned to stare at the castle's facade of grey stone, illuminated by torchlight, and at the huge doors open to reveal the golden glow of firelight inside— warm and inviting in contrast to the cold and dark of the world outside the castle walls.

John felt a hand land heavily on his shoulder. Monseigneur.

"Breathe, John," he said, head suddenly leaning close so that he was almost saying the words next to John's ear. "Just remember to breathe."

John caught a glimpse of Monseigneur's smile and suddenly realized how he must have looked like just then, gaping at the castle as though he had never seen one properly before. Before he could think to arrange his face, though, the figure of a woman materialized at the doors. Monseigneur drew away from John as he started up the steps, arms held out to the elderly lady as she greeted his arrival in delighted tones.

"My Lady Hudson," John heard Monseigneur's murmuring voice, warm as heated brandy, as he bent down to kiss her hand formally. "I trust everything was in order while I was away."

"Aye, my lord," said the lady. She let out a small, delighted laugh and impulsively took Monseigneur into her arms for a brief hug just as he was about to straighten up. "You've been away for so long, Sherlock— first at court and then over at Lord Lestrade's garrison, that we have all begun to wonder when we shall ever see you again."

John felt surprise slam through him at the lady's words, could not help the little jerk of his head as he turned sharply to look at Monseigneur.

Monseigneur allowed Lady Hudson to embrace him for a brief three seconds before detaching himself from her arms. He murmured his excuses, his words not quite registering to John as he repeated to himself the one word he had heard fall from Lady Hudson's lips.

Sherlock.

At long last, Monseigneur was nameless no longer.

* * *

On that boat ride down the river during the end of their first day of travel, when evening had settled in and rendered any sightseeing outside the barge pointless, John had tried to make Billy cough out Monseigneur's name by initiating a guessing game.

They had all been tired and strung out from a long day on the saddle, and John had not known why he had felt the sudden urge for conversation. He had been too keyed up to remain sitting still, listening to the oars dipping into the dark waters. So he had done it on a lark while he had been high on a strange, heady mixture of nerves and excitement which he had been unwilling to look closely into.

"Henry. It must be Henry," John had whispered to Billy as Monseigneur, growing increasingly bored and restless as they sailed downriver, had started harassing the boat crew as to their estimated time of arrival back on land and whether they could make the boat go any faster. A dangerous request— one that had met with a lot of noncommittal murmurings and very little action from the crew, well used to their lord's impatience. Instead, the captain had brought out some musicians to soothe Monseigneur's ruffled feathers.

Billy had smilingly shaken his head at John as music from a lute drifted softly in the cool evening air.

"William?"

"Well, that's my name, sir, but not Monseigneur's."

"Richard."

"No."

Edward had met with a similar answer from Billy.

John had sighed. "He can't be a Stephen. Can he?"

Billy had asked, suddenly and earnestly, "Why not just call him Monseigneur, sir, like everybody else? There's no shame or embarrassment to it. I mean, he's your lord now, too, after all. Sooner or later you'll have to call him _something_ in front of other people, and most definitely you can't go around calling him 'he', or his actual name_."_

Of course, Billy had been right. It would only be a matter of time before the noose got tighter around the issue. It would be just like Monseigneur to enjoy wringing titles-as-names out of John, if only to drive the point home as to who was the master and who was the servant between them. What John could not explain to Billy was the fact that it had become a point of honor for him _never_ to call the man his lord, no matter the practical dictates of reality.

Luckily, Monseigneur had chosen that moment to interrupt their little conversation (carried out _sotto voce_ all throughout) to start harassing them over some inane detail of their journey, making it unnecessary for John to reply to Billy's very logical query.

But now, standing at the threshold of the man's home, John had suddenly come upon his name.

_Sherlock._

John was not sure what it meant for him to know Monseigneur's name, but he felt that it was something like seeing his face. The man had so many aspects of his person hidden from scrutiny that John had to wonder what it was that he took such pains to hide.

_Sherlock_, thought John, sounding the name out again in his mind. But what kind of a name was Sherlock? John had to admit that it was quite fitting though. It was an impossible name, well-suited for an impossible man. Somehow he knew Monseigneur would have an unusual name, and true enough, he was not disappointed.

John quietly followed the rest of the weary entourage into the welcoming warmth and light of the great hall, watching Monseigneur receive his due welcome from his people. They were surprisingly few— the chief servants, mostly. There was his secretary, a dour looking young man named Dimmock. And another lady, younger than Lady Hudson, with long, wavy chestnut hair swept neatly back her head. She blushed prettily as Monseigneur bent over her hand, lips not quite touching her pale skin.

When Monseigneur straightened back, he said, "Well, Mary the Younger. Look at you."

The girl turned bright pink. "Welcome back, Monseigneur," she murmured shyly, smiling. "Je suis contente de te revoir."

But Monseigneur was hardly listening to her. He stared at the girl for a second and said in a flat, rapid murmur, "Lip rouge. You're wearing lip rouge. Why on _earth_ are you wearing lip rogue?"

The girl's smile faded as her eyes widened in dismay. It was almost comic, had it not been that her mortification was entirely genuine. "I…I—" she stuttered.

"Do take it off as soon as possible," said Monseigneur in a low voice, audible only to John and Billy as they flanked his side. "We wouldn't want to ruin your chances of finding a suitable husband now, would we?"

John frowned heavily at Monseigneur's back, but Monseigneur was already moving past the Lady Mary and addressing the general audience: "Everyone, I would like you to meet John Watson, from the Angrian Highlands. He will be staying with us indefinitely. Do try to extend him every courtesy."

And that was the extent of John's introduction to the inhabitants of Wolf's Lair.

Monseigneur turned to him and said briefly, "We're home, John."

* * *

It took a few more hours for them to settle down. Monseigneur had to preside over supper and the serious business of feeding the soldiers who had escorted them safely through their voyage. Tomorrow they would be starting back home. John felt so tired that he could barely feel his legs, let alone taste what he was putting into his mouth automatically. At one point, he could see Billy nodding over his food a few heads down the long table.

At last, supper was done and the guests were given their sleeping arrangements for the night.

The day was not yet done for the lord of the manor, however, and Monseigneur had Billy take John into his custody while he sat down to confer with Lady Hudson, receiving her endorsements and taking back the responsibilities that he had left into her care while he was away. Through a haze of fatigue, John patiently and quite mindlessly followed Billy, who was himself about ready to drop as he carried out the last of Monseigneur's instructions for the day. He let himself be drawn into a quick bath in a distant wing of the castle and got into some clean clothes, allowed himself to be ushered into the room where he was going to sleep in—

John took one look at his assigned sleeping quarters and felt a portion of the fatigue abruptly dispelling from his mind. He drew back from the doorstep, unwilling to take another step inside the room allocated to him.

"This...this can't be right," he said, shaking his head at Billy.

"Oh, it's quite right, I can assure you, sir," said Billy, moving into the vast, grand room. "This is Monseigneur's bedroom. You're to take over my bed, here."

Billy showed him where he slept, a comfortable looking divan at the foot of Monseigneur's bed. Of course, John's attention was instantly drawn to the room's main bed just a few feet away— a wooden four-poster practically a mile wide, complete with canopies and dark curtains on the sides. It was heaped with pillows, with thick fur coverlets in addition to blankets on the crisp sheets, already turned down.

Fatigue was making speech difficult, but John tried anyway: "I...I can't...stay here. This is too much—"

Billy was already turning down the sheets of the divan bed for him. "Yes, you can, sir. You must," he said. "It's Monseigneur's wish. You see, he says my eviction will serve as my punishment for letting you see his face back in the garrison."

John stared in stunned incomprehension at Billy, whose expression was anything but regretful for having been evicted from Monseigneur's bedroom. From the way he was moving about, collecting his things, it seemed he could hardly wait to leave. "Whose punishment is this again?" asked John slowly. "Yours or mine?"

Billy's laughter was light and vivid with relief. "Monseigneur has been very generous, considering," was all he would say.

"To you," finished John dryly.

"Oh, you will find he won't be much of a bother. I will just be a few floors down. He will ring me if he needs anything during the night, which he very hardly does. You don't need to get up. He doesn't sleep all that much, anyway, so you won't really see much of him here. And once he does fall sleep it would be difficult to wake him," said Billy. "He keeps odd hours, and he won't be back for a few more hours tonight. He won't be much of a bother, I promise."

"You know you can't promise that." John's mind was clouding over again as the fatigue finally settled down to stay.

Billy shifted around on his feet. "Well, I will leave you now, sir. Good night and sleep well."

_Unbelievable_, thought John as he sat stiffly on the edge of his new bed and watched Billy make his departure, shutting the thick wooden doors quietly behind him. He swallowed nervously and looked around him.

Who would have thought that a week ago, he had slept in a bank of leaves and moss in the deep bowels of the forest? He felt like pinching himself just to make sure he was not dreaming.

For a while, he let his gaze roam around the spacious room, paneled in dark wood and the high walls set in precious tapestries depicting a hunting scene. A huge fireplace, with smoldering embers, took up one side. A large table stacked with papers and other debris, with some chairs strewn about on its side, was on the other side of the room next to the tall, narrow latticed windows. There were bookshelves occupying an entire wall, crammed with volumes. Candles glowed a soft light from silver candlesticks all over the room.

Inadvertently, John's gaze returned to the giant four-poster bed just behind him. The thing made him uneasy, yet at the same time it beckoned to him.

He brought his gaze back to his new bed, assessing its position in relation to the great bed just behind it. It was just absurd that he should sleep at the foot of Monseigneur's bed. He was not some sort of _pet_ to be given such an arrangement. He would have to ask for the bed to be moved, preferably backing one of the walls.

But in the morning. As soon as he got some sleep.

Right now though...

He yawned widely, but instead of falling unconscious immediately and face-first into his new bed, John felt himself getting up, his wretched curiosity very much awake and insistent inside a mind already shutting down bit by bit from weariness.

He ought to be fighting this. He really ought to. He really should be sitting stiffly upright at the edge of his bed and not move a muscle until Monseigneur came back just to show him he was not at all impressed with his surroundings, or the very dubious honor of being made to sleep at his feet.

He ought to be resisting.

Because what would Monseigneur say if he were to suddenly come upon John like this, approaching his bed with all the stealthy, guilty movements of a thief?

But John was too tired to resist. At least for tonight.

_It won't take a minute. And anyway, he won't be back. Not for a very long time_, whispered a voice inside him. _He won't know what you've been up to. Just make it quick._

He just needed to inspect this monstrously beautiful bed to see that it was actually real and not a product of his imagination. It looked unreal, like a figment of a dream. Perhaps he was already asleep at this point and dreaming all of this.

Tentatively, he reached out a hand to touch the wood paneling that decorated the headboard of the bed. Again it was intricately and masterfully carved, with the shapes of birds and animals tucked into wooden foliage. Were these scenes the last things Monseigneur saw each night as he closed his eyes?

But no, he would have to be lying down, staring up at the canopied ceiling of the bed...

_Bloody hell, John, what are you doing? _A voice inside his head— the sane one, the only rational one still awake— screamed at him as he suddenly made up his mind. _Whatever it is you're planning to do, don't do it!_

But it was a small voice, easily pushed away and ignored as John slowly sat himself down on the edge of Monseigneur's bed. The mattress felt heavenly. Smiling slightly, he let himself bounce a little on the bed, feeling its springy resilience. Drowsiness was making him reckless, but the bed really did feel as good as it looked. Besides, he thought it had been a very, very long time since he had given in to such a careless impulse— something silly and happily inconsequential. Playful.

The covers had been turned down, leaving a nest of furs that looked oh, so inviting. Slowly, he allowed himself to lie back and down on the furs that covered the bed as he stared at the canopied ceiling overhead. There was nothing much to be seen up there, but goodness gracious, the shocking delight of the furs underneath him!

He turned his head so that his cheek grazed against the lush sumptuousness of sable and mink. It felt so impossibly lovely against his skin. He stayed that way for a while, cheek nuzzling against the furs, one hand sliding and stroking absently over them. A faint, spicy scent from their folds reached out to lull him comfortably away and farther away from himself.

_A second longer and I'll get up_, he thought. _There's still a bit of time. He'll never know I've been here._

Luxuriously, he burrowed deeper into the soft furs and closed his eyes for what was supposedly just a moment.

Just one tiny moment…

John's stroking hand slowed to a gentle stop on top of the furs, his fingers gradually relaxing, uncurling against them as he finally drifted deeply, sweetly, into sleep.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Just a little note concerning medieval castle bedrooms: In the earliest days of the European castle, the lord and his family slept in the great hall, along with all their servants. The noble family's sleeping area was usually at one end of the hall and was separated from the rest by simple curtains. In time, castle builders constructed separate chambers for the nobility, but although lords and ladies had their bed(s) to themselves, attendants might share the room for convenience and security. For the sake of warmth as well as privacy, the lord's bed was curtained, and his attendants slept on simple pallets on the floor, on trundle beds, or on benches. John's divan bed is a concession on my part. ^_~

A knight or lady's bed was large and wood-framed, and its "springs" were interlaced ropes or leather strips upon which a feather mattress would rest. It had sheets, fur coverlets, quilts and pillows, and it could be fairly easily dismantled and transported to other castles when the lord made a tour of his , curtains were hung from the ceiling, but as the bed evolved, a frame was added to support a canopy, or "tester," from which the curtains hung.

(Source: Canopy Beds- the Bad Old Days)

More details concerning the layout of Wolf's Lair and medieval castles in the next chapter, when John decides to go exploring.

_Sotto voce_: in an undertone; said under the breath

_Je suis contente de te revoir_: I'm glad to see you

I actually have some photos of castles and castle bedrooms that I really, really wish I can upload along with the story, but as ff . net does not have any image uploading capacity, please do visit Captive Hearts at AO3 for the images, if you'd like to see them: archiveofourown . works/559844/chapters/1191642


	17. Chapter 16

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 16**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Zelide, thanks so much for your lovely review. I couldn't leave you a PM, but I just want to say you and I share the same guilty pleasure in gobbling up romance novels! As you will find in this chapter, I have employed the most clichéd romance-novel situation of all: the protagonist landing in the prince's/ lord's/ boss's/ insert-other-names-for-superior-here's bed. Hehehe.

Kat, yes, you're right! Monseigneur cannot shirk his responsibilities to his people, and that is one of the main themes of captivity in the story.

Thanks so much for your messages, my dears! I really appreciate them. Please do keep them coming as I'd love to hear from all of you. More authors' notes at the end.

* * *

He was drunk with fatigue by the time he emerged from the dungeons.

It was never a good state to be in. He hated the limitations his physical body always exacted from him— eating, drinking, sleeping. All of these activities were such a waste of precious time and energy; all of them clamoring for his attention when there were so many other interesting things to attend to.

Take now, for instance. There was nothing he would like to do more than to start his work in the dungeons, but weariness was getting to him, fast. Lady Hudson had taken her time with the lengthy endorsements until they had finished sometime after midnight. He had not been able to do anything but chafe all throughout; but the endorsements were necessary, impossible to put off as some decisions needed his approval as soon as possible. He hated being captive to his royal obligations but he had learned over the years that there were grave consequences attached when the many problems of handling his vast estates were not resolved as soon as possible: disputes among the tenants of his lands; the imposition of royal decrees; the daily tribulations of setting things right over the multitudes under him. Of course, there were overseers and courtiers to take care of these things in detail, but they needed his decisions and his approval. He was forever shackled to the mundane and the inane, yet he needed these people and the fruits of their labor as much as they needed him. Besides, any hint of negligence on his part and his dear brother would not hesitate to take away the sources of his revenues. He was shackled in more ways than one.

But now, finally, after a hot bath, there was some time left for himself, yet he had not counted on the long journey finally taking its toll on his body. Much to his disgust, he had found himself nodding off as soon as he had got to the dungeons to lay out the materials he would be needing in the coming days for his experiments. The cold and damp nether parts of the Lair were never the best place to fall asleep in, so he had grudgingly swung the iron doors shut behind him and, lighted candlestick in hand, made his way up the long, circular flights of uneven stone stairs to his rooms.

He entered his rooms not through the main doors but through the passageway concealed by the bookcases. As soon as he swung the revolving bookcase back to it proper place, he glanced around his rooms expectantly.

And frowned when his eyes failed to alight on John.

He should be asleep by now, tucked away in Billy's divan at the foot of his bed. Yet he could see the divan with its coverlets neatly turned down and there was no sign of John anywhere on it.

_Strange…_

Had John decided to leave the rooms and gone wandering about the Lair at this time of night? Good God, could he have gotten lost somewhere in the castle?

He walked quickly over to inspect the closed doors but then his eyes alighted on his bed.

_What on earth…!_

He checked the doors and made sure they were securely locked before he went over to his bed, approaching it slowly as he took in the curious sight of John fast asleep on his bed.

There he lay, his body sprawled in an impossible position— half on and half off the other side of the massive bed, his legs dangling down the sides while his upper body was ensconced in the nest of furs. One hand rested on his stomach, the other was near his head, nestled in the furs. A whole range of possible reasons for the scenario ran through his mind, quick as lightning, yet only one seemed plausible: apparently, John had fallen asleep halfway through an inspection of his bed.

A smile rose slowly to his lips as he blew out his candle and set it aside. In the fading light of the setting moon, he moved around the bed slowly, gathering the curtains together, shutting his bed from outside view, until he reached John's side.

He let his gaze roam over John's still form, felt that now-familiar tug somewhere at the center of his chest at the sight of the man, open and defenseless in front of him in sleep as he never would be during waking moments. John was wearing a nightshirt that ran to below his knees, but it was hitched up a bit now as he lay in deep slumber across the bed so that his well-shaped, muscled legs and a part of his thigh could be seen.

He gazed at John at his leisure— something he could not afford to do when the man was awake. He remembered the very first time he had seen John by the hillside, in the rain: a fierce, little man with long, dirty, matted hair that he knew would gleam golden with just a bit of washing up, and wide eyes— deep blue and desperate— that belonged to some wild creature in need of taming.

John looked so different now as he lay fast asleep, and it wasn't just because he had had a shave and a haircut. Gone was the perennial frown that almost always attended his brow when he looked at him. The lines about his eyes and mouth were also relaxed and unguarded, rendering him more youthful, almost boyish; the expression of his face was impossibly peaceful.

He had felt something potent flare between them during that first swordfight, setting fire to the rain. He had known as soon as John had knocked his sword from his hands in that field that he had to have him. And his instinct had not been proven wrong. How fortuitous that he would find his would-be savior in such circumstances. It was such a perfect stroke of good luck— almost as though it were predestined, if he could believe in such things.

He lifted his hands now and moved to touch John on those compact, powerful legs, lightly dusted with coarse golden hairs, and swung them easily up on the bed. John slept on. Carefully, he adjusted John's position, settling a soft pillow under his head and tucking him neatly, almost tenderly, into the fur coverlets.

This task finished, he stood up and began to undress beside the bed, removing his boots, shucking his shirt and trousers and slipping into a linen nightshift before he climbed in. He turned to pull the last of the curtains closed behind him, plunging the interiors of this little room within a room into darkness and a soft, silent, nameless intimacy. Lifting the fur coverlets briefly aside, he settled down beside John on the bed.

* * *

John was feeling the most delicious sense of warmth all around him. For a while, there were dreams— fleeting, never to be remembered upon waking. Slowly though, like a swimmer emerging from deep waters, he began to surface from the dark fog of sleep to the twilight state between sleeping and waking.

He opened his eyes, blinking, briefly disoriented. He could see nothing: everything was pitch-black. Yet, the happy warmth lingered like a pair of arms around him, holding him safe and secure. Strange, this warmth. It had a sinuous, mobile quality about it. It shifted around his person as he tried to move, to turn around. A part of him wanted to give in to that cozy warmth and go back to sleep, so that for a moment he fought the urge— the need— to wake up.

Then he came awake abruptly as he remembered those last, few moments before sleep claimed him. His eyes snapped open, body stiffening into alertness as it registered its surroundings: he was in near-total darkness, on Monseigneur's giant bed. He was swaddled in furs but the warmth was not just coming from there— he was being held! There were actually arms, long and lean, wrapped around him! There was also a body, emanating that incredible warmth, immediately behind his, spooned along the entire length of his spine!

He tried to rise in sudden alarm and the strong arms merely tightened around him, preventing him from getting up. He began to struggle in earnest, but the furs around him were a hindrance and the arms around him only tightened their hold until they turned forceful, cruel, in their grip. Now a leg was thrown over his thrashing ones and John could feel that long body behind him sliding over his back, taking advantage of his position and wrestling him into the bed on his stomach. A soft grunt of pain as he managed to elbow his faceless, formless opponent, but then his arms were caught, held onto his back with one unyielding hand while another reached over to clamp over his mouth as he finally drew in a breath to shout.

"Hush now, John," commanded that deep voice softly, lips hovering unseen but very near his ear. John could feel himself breaking out into gooseflesh as Monseigneur's hot breath tickled the sensitive skin just beneath that particular ear. "There will be no hysterics on your first night here. Not when you _chose_ to be in my bed, to begin with."

John said nothing, merely breathed harshly against the hardness of that hand over his mouth. From behind came that deep voice again, whispering, "I will remove my hand only if you promise not to shout."

Breathing heavily, almost panting, John finally gave a nod. He felt the hand withdraw from his mouth and he gasped more air into his lungs.

"Get off me," he said, his voice a harsh rasp as he felt Monseigneur's full weight still pinning him down on the bed. Good lord, the man felt like a firebrand. He could feel the warmth emanating from him through their thin nightshirts, feel those long, muscled legs trapping his in an appallingly intimate way.

"Not unless you promise not to leave," came Monseigneur's silky whisper.

"I _have_ to go!" John said, voice raised in an almost-wail of panic. "I _can't_ be here!"

"You should have thought of that before you decided to fall asleep in the middle of my bed, then," retorted Monseigneur, but his voice was as warm as his body, and filled with languid amusement.

"I—it was a mistake," stammered John. "I didn't mean—"

"Save your excuses," drawled Monseigneur as he tightened his grip on John's pinioned arms. John gave a hiss of pain.

"Watch it!" snapped John. Then: "All right! Just… let go of me. I won't leave."

"Good."

John snatched his hands away as soon as he felt Monseigneur release his grip on them. He froze as he felt Monseigneur's long-fingered hands glide over his back, winding around his body again to envelop him in a snug embrace as he shifted them back to lie on their sides.

"John," said Monseigneur softly, slurring ever so slightly in drowsiness. A _frisson_ of awareness passed through John as he heard his name on the man's lips. "Insolent, impertinent John. What were you thinking, falling asleep right here? Is Billy's divan not comfortable enough that you have to come and try out your lord's bed?"

John snorted in annoyance and said quite shortly, "I was simply curious, all right?"

"Curious, yes," said Monseigneur in that same languid voice. "You know what it did to the cat."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" cried John, hoping to sound exasperated and only partially succeeding. "You're going to have me killed simply because you caught me lying down on your bed?"

"Hmm. Not killed, no," murmured Monseigneur, and John flinched as he felt the man bury his face against his nape, brushing his nose against his skin and taking in his scent. "But punished, yes."

"Bloody hell, that's it. I'm leaving now!" cried John, having had enough of Monseigneur's teasing. Once again, the arms and legs clamped down hard around him like a vice before he could effectively squirm free, bringing him savagely against that long, hard body even more fully than before.

"Stay," growled Monseigneur. "Consider it your punishment."

"You like doing this, don't you?" John ground out, aghast to find himself stirring as he felt Monseigneur's body behind him, felt that distinctive bulge of flesh against the small of his back. "You enjoy torturing people like this?"

Monseigneur's tone turned inquisitive, interested. "Why, John," he said, his tone quite conversational, "are you actually telling me that you're quite affected by me, after all?"

"I'm telling you that I'm not interested in whatever game you're playing," John said through gritted teeth. "Whatever outcome you have in mind is going to be achieved only by force, and... and—"

Monseigneur actually laughed aloud as he heard John's words, laced with rage and something close to virginal terror. His laughter was rich and dark, disembodied and smoky in the close confines of the space they shared. "I doubt if anyone can force you into anything against your will, John Watson," he said. "In fact, I'd like to see anyone foolish enough to try. Oh no, no, no. Rest assured that I will take nothing from you against your wishes. You will give everything to me gladly and of your own choice. Soon."

John thought about punching the man, then. He really did, though he decided not to in the end because he was not worth the hue and cry that would most certainly follow afterwards. John was, after all, staying in the man's _castle_, for crying out loud. "And now?" asked John. "What happens now?"

"Now I want you to stay," said Monseigneur.

John waited for a moment more, waited for some punch line to be delivered because staying for some cuddling— intensely weird enough in its own right— certainly could not be Monseigneur's sole agenda. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, John said, "That's it? Just stay?"

He felt Monseigneur's lips stretch into a smile against the skin of his nape. "Stay until I fall asleep, at least. I wouldn't be able to care even if I want to, after that. Unless you have something else in mind that you're willing to share now," he said, voice already growing wispy, trailing away at the end of his words.

Unseen in the dark, John shook his head incredulously. Unbelievable, this. All of this!

He let several minutes pass, face burning hot, keeping his body absolutely still and willing his racing heart to slow down. He felt Monseigneur's fingers brush a slow pattern across his clothed chest.

"Your heart," Monseigneur whispered. "It feels like a bird trapped in a cage, panicking to get out."

John lifted a hand to wrench Monseigneur's fingers away from his chest. "You didn't say anything about touching," he said curtly.

"I would think that would have been too obvious to warrant mentioning," drawled Monseigneur, defiantly snaking his arms around John once again.

John suppressed a shiver and, searching for a change of topic, reached out with a hand to tweak the bed curtains open a little.

"It's getting light outside," he said resignedly. "It must be nearly dawn. You should get some sleep."

"Mmm…" Monseigneur snuggled closer against his back. "Tell them not to wake me."

Over long, long minutes, John gradually felt Monseigneur's hold relax on his body as his breathing evened out. Finally, John let out a shuddering breath and allowed himself to turn over to look at the man.

In the day's faint first light, tricky and unreliable, Sherlock looked almost unreal, beautiful like some mythical beast as he lay on his side, curled against John's back. With his tousled curls and those chiseled features set at rest, John could almost see the child he had been before he turned into the being that was Monseigneur— hard and cold, brilliant and polished like a diamond.

Just then he looked vulnerable, arms still wound— quite gently, this time— around John, as though the embrace were the most natural thing in the world.

John tore his gaze away after a while, completely bawled over as always by Monseigneur's effect on him, and of his own highly inappropriate response. His body felt tight, humming with tension. He was ashamed to realize that he was actually half-hard after their heated exchange, and what they had exchanged were mostly just words. Well, words and quite a bit of Monseigneur's body pressed against his.

This was not good.

Not good at all.

When he was sure that Monseigneur was truly, soundly asleep, John carefully inched away from him, extracting himself from his arms, taking care to move slowly so as not to wake him. The feel of the stone floor beneath his bare feet was like pure ice as he emerged (rather, tumbled out) from the bed. He closed the bed's curtains and stepped onto the carpets, shivering, arms around himself as he made his way over to the little table where Billy had thoughtfully left some day clothes for him to change into.

He dressed quickly and quietly, firmly resisting the urge to pace, to grab at his hair and give in to a flurry of panic and want. No use berating himself on just how stupid and thoughtless he had been. How careless. _That_ was as plain as day. And he was not going to give in to his body's urges. Not this time.

But he needed to get out of here. That much was certain.

After he was done dressing, John opened the locked wooden doors and quietly slipped out.

He was not sure where he ought to go or how to get down; the corridor on both sides seemed to stretch on forever. He tried going down one way only to find it branching out into other, shadowy corridors and quickly retraced his steps to try the other end. Finally, he got to a narrow staircase that led him down several floors before emerging onto the castle's grand staircase which, in turn, led to the main hall.

No sign of anyone just then, though John could not believe he was the only one up and about at this time.

He went down the steps quickly and crossed the main hall, looking this way and that, taking in the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the huge tapestries that lined the high walls, the central one displaying Monseigneur's heraldic device of a wolf rampant in black and silver. Impressive, all of it, but stifling. He needed to get out into the open air, to calm down.

He needed to leave Monseigneur and the humiliating memory of him being caught in the man's bed far, far behind him. He needed to stop thinking what it could possibly mean to wake up, not to get thrown out of bed, but to have Monseigneur spooned behind him. He did not know what to make of the man, who seemed definitely mad. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Also savagely forceful, ruthlessly charming, and oddly enough (God only knew how he could think this), even a little sweet.

John finally reached the main doors and opened them a crack. The air was cool and brisk against his burning face as he stepped outside. It felt wonderful.

In the grey light of very early morning, John surveyed the wide, stone courtyard in front of the castle. So this was where they had alighted last night. The warrior in John was keen to go exploring, to see the castle's many fortifications and to work out its defenses against invading enemies. Considering its owner's exacting nature, Wolf's Lair promised to be a very, very interesting castle to look into.

Setting off at a brisk pace and in a most determined spirit of adventure, John marched across the broad expanse of courtyard, traversed so easily on horseback the night before but actually taking a great deal more time to cross on foot, until he reached the fortified walls of the main gateway. From there, he could see the narrow passageway or Barbican stretching out to the outer courtyard outside, where the servants were already at work in the stables, in the mews, carrying things and going about with their daily tasks.

Ah, but wait. This inner gateway and the Barbican were crucial elements of the castle's defenses. The narrow passageways were a booby trap for enemies able to traverse the first lines of defenses outside. This was where they would need to pass through before they could reach the sanctum of the inner courtyard and the castle itself. This was where they could get trapped as people slammed the portcullis down on both ends of the passageways.

John walked through the gateway and into the Barbican, and looked up at the steep stone walls around him. Yes, right up there, all along the walls were arrow shafts— narrow, murder holes where the castle's defenders could shoot at the trapped enemy below with arrows, or pour boiling oil and tar over their hapless heads.

He continued walking until he left the Barbican and emerged onto the outer courtyard. Here, again, was another castle feature— the moat. Unlike other castles where the moat was designed to be outside the castle, complete with a retractable drawbridge guarding the castle's first gateway, the Lair's moat was situated just inside the outer courtyard. This, John knew, was to protect the castle from any enemy cunning enough to think to dig his way underground to reach the castle. He would have met a watery death instead once he tunneled his way through the ground and reached the moat.

John grinned at the thought as he stared into the waters of the moat where some perch swam idly by. He turned back, entering the inner gateway and re-emerging onto the inner courtyard.

And took his first good look of Wolf's Lair in clear daylight.

The castle was beautiful. An imposing, lovely thing of cool grey stone and brick, it was long and sprawling at the back but compact and gracious-looking up front. John found he could fight Monseigneur off for all he was worth, but Wolf's Lair took the fight out of him in just seconds. And all John had to do was _look_ at it.

Towards the castle's rear were the private courtyard and the towers which, Billy promised him the night before, looked out over the sea.

And John found himself longing to look at the sea.

He made his way back into the castle, into the main hall, where he was promptly accosted by Billy.

"John, sir! Good morning," said Billy cheerily, promptly taking his arm. "I've been looking all over for you. I went in to check on you but you weren't in Monseigneur's rooms. Did you have a good night's sleep, sir?"

"Yes." John cleared his throat. "Yes, I passed a very…comfortable night."

"Are you sure, sir?" Billy eyed him dubiously. "I checked the divan and the sheets were just as I left them. You didn't, by any chance, skip it entirely to spend the night on the floor?"

_Well, goddamit, John Watson, don't fucking blush in front of this boy!_

"No. I, um— I guess I must have slept like a log, didn't move around much to disturb anything," he lied. "I refolded my blanket, as you must have noticed."

"Oh, well, you shouldn't have," said Billy, still looking a bit dubious. "Anyway, Lady Hudson said you must be hungry so she sent me to fetch you for breakfast. She said the introductions last night had been too brief. She and everyone else would like to get to know you better."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: _The discussion of a castle's design and layout below is taken from "Design Secrets of Medieval Castles" and "Exploring Castles". There are pictures of the castle layout that I wish I can show you guys, but as ff . net does not allow the posting of pics in a fic, I posted it at AO3 instead. Please do drop by the site if you would like to look at the pictures._

A lot of thought, ingenuity, and planning went into the design of Medieval castles. Everything from the outer walls to the shapes and location of stairwells were very carefully planned to provide maximum protection to the inhabitants. Here are some of the unique and lesser-known secrets of medieval castle designs.

**The Moat **– A moat, which is a body of water that surrounds a castle, is often thought of as a water obstacle that had to be crossed; but this wasn't its primary function. One of the biggest concerns of the inhabitants of a medieval castle or fortress was the fear that an invading army would dig tunnels under the fortification. This tunneling could either provide access to the castle or cause a collapse of the castle walls. A moat prevented this because any tunnel dug under the moat would collapse and fill with water. It was a very effective deterrent against tunneling. Often times the moat wasn't even on the outside of the castle. It was on the inside between the outer wall and the inner wall.

**Concentric Circles of Defense** – This was an extremely effective method of defense for the inhabitants of a Medieval castle. It was a series of obstacles that started on the outside of the castle and worked their way in. It was usually a progression like a cleared field: an outer wall, a moat, an inner wall, a keep and then a strong hold tower. An attacking army would have to overcome each of these obstacles one at a time. And this took a lot of time and effort to do.

**The Main or Inner Gate as a Death Trap** – The inner gate of a castle was often the most dangerous place in the castle because it was also a deadly trap. It is often connected to a narrow passageway or Barbican that had another gate at the far end. An iron portcullis guards the gates and if the attackers managed to break through the defenses and make it as far into the grounds as the Barbican, the portcullis was brought down on either end and the attackers were trapped in the narrow passageway. The walls of the Barbican had small holes called death holes or murder holes _(__meurtrières)_ where the defenders could fire arrows and other projectiles at the trapped attackers below them.

**The Hidden Secrets of Stairwells** – Stairwells were often very carefully designed in Medieval castles. The stairwells of towers were often curved very narrowly and in a clockwise direction. This meant that attackers coming up the stairs had their sword hands (right hand, usually) against the interior curve of the wall and this made it very difficult for them to swing their swords. Defenders had their sword hands on the outside wall, which meant they had more room to swing. Another ingenious design of stairs was that they were designed with very uneven steps. Some steps were tall and others were short. The inhabitants, being familiar with the uneven pattern of the stair heights, could move quickly up and down the stairs but attackers, in a dimly lit stairwell, would easily fall and get bogged down in the stairwells. This slowed them down significantly and made them vulnerable to attack.

**Secret Passages **– What Medieval castle would be complete without secret passages? Many castles had secret passages and they served a variety of purposes. Some passages were designed to open up a distance from the castle so inhabitants could escape during an attack or get supplies in and out during a siege. Secret passages also led to secret chambers where people could hide, supplies could be kept or a well for water was dug.

_The phrase "Mad, bad and dangerous to know" is attributed to Lady Caroline Lamb, famously describing her lover, Lord Byron._

_"**Set(ting) fire to the rain**" is lifted from one of my favorite songs by Adele:_

I let it fall, my heart  
And as it fell, you rose to claim it  
It was dark and I was over  
Until you kissed my lips and you saved me

My hands, they're strong  
But my knees were far too weak  
To stand in your arms  
Without falling to your feet

But there's a side to you that I never knew, never knew  
All the things you'd say, they were never true, never true  
And the games you play, you would always win, always win

But I set fire to the rain  
Watched it pour as I touched your face  
Let it burn while I cry  
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name

When laying with you  
I could stay there, close my eyes  
Feel you here, forever  
You and me together, nothing is better

'Cause there's a side to you that I never knew, never knew  
All the things you'd say, they were never true, never true  
And the games you'd play, you would always win, always win

But I set fire to the rain  
Watched it pour as I touched your face  
Let it burn while I cried  
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name

I set fire to the rain  
And I threw us into the flames  
Where I felt somethin' die, 'cause I knew that  
That was the last time, the last time

Sometimes I wake up by the door  
Now that you've gone, must be waiting for you  
Even now when it's already over  
I can't help myself from looking for you

I set fire to the rain  
Watched it pour as I touched your face  
Let it burn while I cried  
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name

I set fire to the rain  
And I threw us into the flames  
Where I felt somethin' die  
'Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time, oh

Oh, no  
Let it burn, oh  
Let it burn  
Let it burn


	18. Chapter 17

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 17**

* * *

**Special Thanks**: To **PlumpPushu**, for her excellent help with the French needed in this chapter, which is quite beyond my capabilities. Thanks so much, my dear!

* * *

Lady Hudson was waiting for them in the great dining hall.

"Oh, there you are," she cried as soon as she caught sight of Billy and John. Smiling delightedly, she stretched out both hands to John who, after a brief hesitation, took them in his grasp uncertainly.

"John Watson. I didn't manage to get a proper look at you last night. Let me look at you now," she continued, peering closely into John's face with kind, dark eyes. What she saw before her evidently met her approval, for she said warmly, "Well. I'm sure you must be hungry. Let's get some breakfast into you, then."

John did not really know what to say to her. Judging from last night, he knew the lady was kind-hearted but he had not really expected this kind of openness, this ready and unquestioning acceptance of his person, so fast. He cleared his throat and looked about him uncertainly. The long table stretched out before them, empty. No place had been set in readiness for any meal.

Lady Hudson gave a small chortle as she saw John's brief gaze on the table, a little embarrassed, a little shy. "Oh, we're not eating here, dear," she said as she threaded an arm around his and led him gently out of the room. "We very rarely do. Only when Monseigneur is present and only if we absolutely have to. I thought you might be more comfortable breaking your fast with us elsewhere."

She broke off as a thought occurred to her. "Unless…of course, if you would prefer…" she said, uncertainly, eyeing him and then the long table that they were leaving behind.

"No! No," said John quickly. He breathed a sigh of relief as they left the cold, haughtily impersonal dining hall behind. "Thank you that we won't have to eat there, actually."

"I thought so," she said, smiling. "Though I really hope you don't mind. We're all sorts around here, and we don't really adhere to any of the stuffy protocol upheld at Court. Now come and help an old lady wobble out. I declare, this hip gets worse with each winter that passes."

They walked sedately down a long hall with square, latticed windows and vaulted arches in the ceilings, bright with sunlight, with Billy trailing patiently behind.

"Of course, Monseigneur told me the circumstances surrounding your acquaintance," she murmured, voice hushed so that only John could hear her. "Not in full detail, of course, but enough. How can we ever thank you?"

John fought to keep his features blank. "I…can't refuse assistance when it is needed," he said. Then, almost defiantly, he continued, "I would have done it for anyone."

So Monseigneur had told the lady of their _acquaintance_. The man certainly had a way with words. John was willing to bet he had conveniently omitted the juicy parts of his being held captive and then forced to remain in the man's service by coercion and blackmail.

"I know you would. I know that you're just the type of person who would help out a stranger. Only, Monseigneur is hardly just _any_ stranger," replied Lady Hudson. "Think how it would be if, instead of the homecoming we had last night, we would be meeting his funeral cortège right there outside the castle. It does not bear contemplation."

John felt the sudden pinch of her grip on his arm and was startled by the depth of true feeling in her voice, the tight look in her eyes. She drew in a shaky breath and said, "This is what I've always feared would happen whenever he's away from here: that lightning would strike twice."

John turned to stare at her sharply. She nodded grimly. "This isn't the first time he's been poisoned," she said.

* * *

John did not get an opportunity to ask questions as they finally reached their destination.

"Well, everyone, here he is!" Lady Hudson announced as Billy flung the doors open to a small, well-lit dining room somewhere at the back of the castle.

The party was very small, consisting only of two people: a short, portly man about John's age and the girl from last night, Lady Mary. Cries of delighted greeting issued from them, as though John were an old and dear acquaintance rather than the complete stranger that he was.

"Lady Mary Hooper, whom I'm sure you will remember from last night," said Lady Hudson, waving a hand at the girl. John smiled as the young woman bobbed him a neat curtsy.

"Enchanté, Monsieur," said Lady Mary, smiling her pretty smile.

"Now, Mary, it's not as if you cannot speak anything other than Gondalian," chided Lady Hudson, a slight widening of her eyes belying the mildness of her tone.

_Be polite and speak the language he understands_, her look said.

Mary blushed furiously and immediately translated, "Enchanted to meet you, sir."

"Uh. Likewise," said John.

"And this is Michael Stamford," said Lady Hudson, waving to the rotund, smiling man beside her.

"Pleased to meet you," Stamford said easily.

John smiled. "Hello."

"Mike is Monseigneur's apothecarist and chief gardener," said Lady Hudson. "He comes in during the day but goes home to the village after dark. And last, but not the least, I would like to introduce you to the person in charge of arranging our little breakfast."

Billy opened a side door and a large, matronly woman with apple cheeks and grey hair pinned back neatly in a cap sidled in.

"John, this is Mary Turner, our chief cook. Mary, this is John Watson," said Lady Hudson.

"Oh, good morning to ye, laddie," said Mary Turner cheerily.

Her hearty, lilting accent caught John unawares. "Wait, you're…you're Angrian," he said, breaking out into a grin as he heard the familiar cadences of his country in her voice.

"Aye, but I've lived me entire married life here in Gaaldine. I've been Monseigneur's chief cook since he moved here when he was a wee lad," said Mary Turner, giving him a proud smile.

John's smile widened.

Mary Turner gave him a fond glance up and down and said to Lady Hudson, "Well, my Lady, I see we have our work cut out for us. Just look at him— thin as a lath! We _woon't_ be having that now, will we?"

"Oh, definitely not, Mary," agreed Lady Hudson. "I am sure a week or so of your cooking will set him aright."

"Aye, perhaps sooner if I can help it," said Mary Turner, giving John a broad wink. "Well, I'd best be getting back to me kitchens before any of the pies being prepared for dinner goes missing. Enjoy your breakfast."

They settled around the oak table and tucked into a generous breakfast of smoked herring and salmon, cheese and bread, weak beer and sop in wine.

"We don't usually eat like this during breakfast," clarified Lady Hudson to John, "but then it's not everyday that we get to welcome somebody to our small household."

Something about her words made John pause in mid-chew, made him consider for the first time his status in Monseigneur's household. From the way Lady Hudson was carrying on, it seemed as though he were going to be a permanent fixture about the place, and John was not sure how to feel about it.

He was not allowed time to contemplate it either. They had so many questions for him: where was he from? What were the Angrian Highlands like? How did he come to Gaaldine? How did he meet Monseigneur?

Billy cut in before John had to answer anything with a sanitized version of their fateful meeting: how Monseigneur had found him wandering about the edge of the forest near the garrison, lost. And how John had very effectively made Monseigneur's fever go away.

"John, sir, have you seen much fighting in Angria?" asked Billy, who had been very much impressed with John's performance at the behourd. John would have applauded how Billy had very deftly steered the conversation away from any potential awkwardness. Clearly, there was much to the boy he had yet to realize.

"Oh, William," interjected Lady Mary, "don't go pressing him into telling us about all _that_."

Billy turned pink up to his ears and stammered an apology. He had forgotten that they were in the company of ladies.

John watched, amused, as Lady Mary effortlessly took over the conversation and asked him, "Have you ever met your queen, sir? Is she a lovely lady? The royal wedding has been on everybody's lips since we heard of it days ago."

"Oh, heavens me! It almost slipped my mind!" cried Lady Hudson in dismay. "His Majesty is due for a visit in a week's time!"

A delighted squeal from Lady Mary, while the men all seemed to cast their eyes somewhere else.

Of course, thought John. The King's arrival meant more work for everyone, Lady Hudson most of all.

"Oh, there will be so many things to take care of," murmured Lady Hudson distractedly. "As soon as breakfast is finished, then. Mary, I will need you to take over some of the chores for this afternoon."

"So, John." Mike Stamford this time, as the ladies broke off to discuss their chores. "We heard you are a healer."

"Yes," said John. "Yes, I am."

Mike smiled. "I'm sure you would love Monseigneur's gardens. We have all sorts of medicinal herbs growing here," he said. "All part of his work, but I'm sure you know that already."

"He did say something about it, yeah," said John.

"Well, we'll be given more specific instructions later on, I'm sure," Mike said.

John smiled. "All right."

Breakfast was finished very soon afterwards, with Mike heading back to his gardens, and Lady Hudson and Lady Mary still deep in their discussion on how to split the castle chores between them in the next few days.

As much as John would have wanted to know more about what Lady Hudson had hinted at regarding Monseigneur's poisoning, he was given no opportunity to pursue it. Nobody else seemed able to accommodate him, so he found himself tagging along after Billy as he went about his chores for the morning.

As Monseigneur's personal page, Billy was responsible for passing his lord's many messages to the servants all over the castle, and given that this was their first day back after having been away a long time, the messages were long and tedious, ranging from orders for the care of his horses and hawks to meetings with his musicians, his tailors, even his bathmen and barber.

So John followed Billy to the royal stables to see to Monseigneur's horses, to the mews to see to his hawks and falcons, and waited patiently as Billy chatted pleasantly with the men tending the animals, giving them Monseigneur's orders and receiving messages in return that needed to reach Monseigneur. In the mews, a familiar face: Azrail was perched on her wooden stand, a yellow leg chained down to keep her in place. She looked to be still recovering from her long journey home, though she regarded John with a bright-eyed look of interest as Eustace, Monseigneur's chief falconer, let him feed her strips of raw meat.

Afterwards, Billy and John were back at the Lair proper, and this time there was a little surprise for John himself.

"Monseigneur has asked his tailors to take your measurements for a set of new clothes," Billy said, ushering him inside a suite of rooms where an elderly man and two young apprentices waited. "He says you will need to put on something suitable for His Majesty."

"What? I'm going to meet the King?" asked John, taken aback. Somehow he did not think it would be necessary for him to do so.

"News travels fast," Billy said a bit wryly. "His Majesty has heard what you have done for Monseigneur and wishes to see you personally."

John found he could say nothing to that. He stood still and watched, bemused, as the tailors took his measurements— the lengths and half-lengths of his shoulders, his arms and his torso, the circumference of his waist, the lengths and half-lengths of his legs. Next came a milliner to measure his head for hats and a shoemaker to make wooden casts of his feet for shoes. It was all a bit confusing to John that they should make such a complete fuss over him. Billy grinned delightedly as he watched the procedure a few feet away.

After that, there were other errands that brought them all over the castle. It took them the entire morning, but they were done before dinner with almost half an hour to spare.

"Where would you want to go after this?" Billy queried. "I'm sure your afternoon will be occupied with Monseigneur, once he's up."

"The towers," said John without hesitation. "I want to see the sea."

So Billy took him to the three towers situated at the back of the castle. The towers, John noted with interest, were round in configuration, with the largest of them— the Keep— being situated in the middle.

"It's the castle's stronghold," said Billy, motioning to the Keep as they walked past it. "But I've found the western tower over there to hold the best view of the ocean."

It took them minutes and minutes to climb the circular stairs that spiraled ever upwards, the occasional window they passed presenting John with a view of the world outside that steadily ascended to the skies, until they came to Billy's window.

Billy grinned as he watched John take the stunning view in. There, seen from a small distance outside the window where they had stopped, was the vast expanse of the blue ocean. John could see the white waves of the water rolling, crashing against the rocky cliff upon which the castle was situated.

"Lovely, isn't it?" said Billy.

"It's amazing," murmured John, eyes never leaving the sea as he rested his arms on the stony window ledge and heard the soothing rhythm of the waves for the first time.

"This is my favorite place in the entre castle," said Billy. "It's where I sometimes go when I need some time alone."

"You don't mind my sharing it?" John asked softly.

"No, of course not." Billy must have sensed something in John's tone, for he continued, "It's all happened so fast, hasn't it? I know how you feel, as though you've been uprooted."

John turned to him, surprised.

"It's all right," said Billy earnestly. "We've all been there before. All of us. I remember that day my lord uncle came to fetch me from my mother's house. It was almost like yesterday. It took us days to reach this place as well. I was fifteen— no longer that young, yet I cried everyday for home and Maman until one day I just stopped crying."

John stared at the boy in front of him, eyes hooded.

Billy swallowed. "All I'm saying is, you'll get used to the Lair, sir," he said. "I got used to it, and I'm sure you will, too. And we're all here to help. There's Lady Hudson and Lady Mary, who are both very kind. And Mike Stamford and myself. My lord uncle will be back in time for His Majesty's visit as well. We'll all help out in any way we can to make you feel at home."

John could not help but smile at Billy's kindness. He would like to say that it wasn't the Lair that he would have trouble getting used to, but of course he couldn't.

"You miss your mum, don't you?" asked John gently.

"Everyday."

"I'm just curious," said John, "about Monseigneur's household. How few we are here. I was expecting many more."

"Monseigneur is picky with the people around him," said Billy carefully.

_Is he?_ thought John, thinking about the circumstances of his association with Monseigneur. How much care had Monseigneur really taken, bringing John under his wings like this? They had only known each other a week, and Monseigneur's hasty decisions were based on reasons which seemed flimsy, at best. After all, there were other healers besides John who could help him with his development of a universal poison antidote; there were other better fighters, better soldiers, than John. These two traits aside, who was John to anyone? He was nothing, he was nobody.

"As you may have noticed, Monseigneur does not place his trust on people very easily," Billy said.

John raised a mental eyebrow on that one.

"For good reason," Billy continued.

"What reason?" John asked, suddenly keen. "Does this have anything to do with his being poisoned a while back? Lady Hudson said something about this not being the only time he's been poisoned."

Billy looked briefly uncomfortable at John's directness but evidently decided that if Lady Hudson had been the first to spill the beans, he could afford to spill a little more.

"That was the reason why Monseigneur left Court to set up his home here," said Billy. "He was being poisoned by his own personal physician. He was thirteen years old at the time."

* * *

Of course, Billy said, he did not really know the full story. He heard it piecemeal over the years— bits here, bits there. Parts from his lord uncle during a careless or drunk moment, parts from Lady Hudson herself. Other parts were pure hearsay.

It was fact that the second prince had been born sickly. He had arrived a few weeks before the expected date and the queen— now the queen dowager— had almost died giving birth to him. After his birth there were no more royal children to be had. Yet the queen had slowly rallied back to health just as he had rallied with the care of a devoted nanny in the form of Lady Hudson, who was also one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting and her closest friend.

Monseigneur had grown up with a sharp mind and an equally sharp tongue— typical traits to be found in his family, apparently— but as a child he had not taken the air around the royal residences in Glasstown well and he had been periodically sick with an abdominal ailment during his thirteenth year.

The accidental discovery by Lady Hudson that Monseigneur's very own physician, a doctor named Culverton Smith, had been tainting his food and drink with a foul laxative had been the scandal of the court at the time. Unhappily enough, the doctor was the personal physician of the two princes, and the fact that the crown prince, who was now the King, had escaped such treatment from the doctor had prompted certain ugly rumors to start that somehow the younger prince was being eliminated to prevent any possibility of succeeding the older one when he became King.

It was all untrue, of course, and entirely illogical, but the rumors spread like wildfire. To this day one would hear whispers, and more whispers. Nothing concrete, but whispers had a way of insinuating themselves in places that more solid things could not.

"Does Monseigneur himself believe any of this?" asked John, enthralled by Billy's story.

"He never really said anything to address the rumors, and his strained relationship with his brother does not help," Billy said. "They've never been the closest of brethren."

_But hold on_, thought John. Monseigneur did say something to him about the King and the reason why he could not be behind the latest poisoning attempt.

_He wouldn't quite dare or else he would have done it years ago._

And the one reason why the King would not dare: _Because of Mummy..._

"So he was given his own place here and removed from his family at the age of thirteen," said John, frowning. Bleeding Christ! "What did his mother have to say about it?"

"Oh, she had wept and wept, to be sure," said Billy. "But his father— probably the most paranoid and eccentric King we've ever had— had decided it, and Lady Hudson came with him to manage his household for him, so there we have it."

John shook his head at the narrative. Unbelievable. Everything about Monseigneur was just unbelievable.

"So that was the reason why he doesn't trust doctors," mused John, more to himself than to Billy.

"He's never really needed one since he came here," said Billy. "The seclusion and the sea air did their work, and during the times he had been ill enough to really need something, Mike Stamford's been able to give him a powder or two."

"So what happened to the doctor?" John wanted to know.

Billy shrugged. "He was executed, naturally," he said.

"Did he ever say why he thought to poison the prince?"

Billy scoffed. "This is where rumor comes in. He never formally said, but the priest who took his last confession claimed that he believed Monseigneur was not a human child, but the devil's spawn," he said, shaking his head. "Would you believe that nonsense?"

In all of Billy's narration what probably chilled John the most was the thought that he was not sure what to think of this last question.

* * *

They had been so engrossed with their talk that they had forgotten the time. Dinner would have started by the time they got back to the Lair. John knew as soon as they stepped into the great hall and a harried-looking manservant came rushing to them that something was up.

They had been looking for them for the greater part of an hour, said the manservant. Monseigneur had asked them to assemble in the grand dining hall to eat with him. John watched as the color drained entirely from Billy's face. He all but broke into a run as they made for the dining hall.

They found Monseigneur seated at the head of the long, long table, now covered in snow-white linen and lined with silver plates and dishes. To his immediate right sat Lady Hudson and Lady Mary was perched gingerly on the edge of her seat several chairs down the table from him. Servants stood at the ready by the walls to serve the food. Nobody was talking— a tense silence hovered over them as Monseigneur, his face masked, contemplated his red wine, his long fingers gently swirling the ornate glass and silver wineglass around and around on the table.

Lady Hudson turned her head as Billy and John entered the room, huffing, breathing their excuses. "Where have you been?" she mouthed silently at Billy. Her puckered brows told them the situation was not good.

Billy merely shook his head and gestured at John to take the seat on Monseigneur's left as he seated himself farther down the table facing Lady Mary.

Monseigneur let go of the stem of his wineglass. "You may begin the prayers, Lady Hudson," he said neutrally, not even looking at John and Billy's direction.

The mealtime prayers were quickly over, and John found the heavy, oppressive silence settling in once more as the servants moved smoothly forward and began serving the food, beginning with Monseigneur.

John drank soup from a mazer and glanced at Monseigneur's profile, trying to wrap his mind around the concept that the man before him and the thirteen year old boy in Billy's story were one and the same person and found it an extremely difficult task. And yet, there was that cuddling incident from early morning. John could not remember it without feeling a twinge somewhere deep inside himself that was partly awkward revulsion, bewilderment and partly (and very, very remotely) something like pity. And a strange, hard twist deep in his gut, in his heart, as he remembered the feel of the man's arms around him.

The feeling did not last long, not when he was surrounded by a blanket of chill emanating from Monseigneur. John waited ten full minutes before he thought the silence too ridiculous to continue. "I uh...I asked Billy to take me to the towers after his errands," he said lightly. "The view of the sea there is fantastic. I've never—"

Monseigneur lifted his head and, still not looking at him, cut him off by saying in a voice completely devoid of inflection, "Don't speak at table unless you're addressed first, John."

John shut his mouth with an almost audible snap. Well, he was angry as hell, all right. Gone was the person who had insisted on a bit of cuddling with John in bed just that morning. It was as though he had never existed.

Monseigneur turned to address Billy: "En retard pour le dîner et maintenant ceci... Dites-moi, combien de mauvaises habitudes a-t-il pu s'acquérir en votre compagnie en une seule matinée et allons-nous laisser la situation continuer ainsi? _(Late for dinner and now this. Tell me, how many bad habits has he acquired since this morning in your company and are we going to allow this to continue?)_"

"J'en suis absolument désolé, Monsieur _(__I'm sorry, sir),"_ breathed Billy, looking stricken.

John stared at Monseigneur, then at Billy, understanding not a word that had just passed between them.

Monseigneur's voice was cold and precise as it cut through the silence like a whip: "N'en soyez pas désolé. Assurez-vous seulement que cela ne se reproduise plus. _(__Don't be sorry. See to it that it does not happen again.)"_

A moment when all eyes were downcast except John's.

Monseigneur's gaze now slid to John. "I hardly think you would take all that time just admiring the sea. What were you doing there to forget the time so completely?" he queried.

John licked his lips, feeling as though he were walking on the edge of a very sharp knife. He was careful to keep his tone light as he said, "Well, we got to talking, Billy and I."

"About what?" asked Monseigneur as he sliced at a chunk of roasted beef with his knife.

"About you," said John carefully. "About your seeming revulsion with doctors."

Billy jerked his head up, threw him a look of frank alarm: _Are you mad?!_

Even Lady Hudson was staring at him with wide eyes. But John never broke eye contact with Monseigneur.

Monseigneur stared at him for a moment, then lowered his knife and turned quite deliberately to Lady Hudson to say, "Incorrigible as always, I see. I should have known you'd be babbling like a brook as soon as you've heard my brief account of garrison life from last night."

"My dear, I don't know what you're talking about. You're the one who said we can trust John Watson fully, after all," returned Lady Hudson serenely as she sipped some of her wine. "And do mind your manners, young man, lest some people think you've been brought up without them."

John felt a surge of admiration for the woman even as her words took him by surprise. "What I mean to say is, it's fine. It's all fine," he said quickly. "I needed to understand why, and now I think I do."

Monseigneur turned back to him, a corner of his mouth already quirking up in a smirk. "All fine?" He said, scoffing. "You must be dreaming, John, if you think I will trust you enough to be my doctor after that mushroom sleeping draught you dosed me with. Rest assured I have not forgotten about that."

John did not miss a beat as he deadpanned, "Well, you have to admit that the draught was quite effective. And beneficial."

"Mushroom sleeping draught?" repeated Lady Mary, who was not sure where the conversation was leading, or how the atmosphere could change around them so abruptly.

But the ice was already melting. Try as he might, Monseigneur found that he could not take back the smirk, which only widened into a full smile at the memory of John's audacious sleeping potion. The tension in the room gradually cleared as the ladies pressed him curiously about the draught and Monseigneur declined to recount the episode for the ladies' benefit. Instead, he launched into an account of His Majesty's plans for the upcoming wedding as written in his missives.

John smiled too and, catching Billy's vastly relieved and grateful eye over the ensuing chatter, gave him a small wink.

_Don't worry, I've got this one_, his wink seemed to say. _For now._

* * *

**Author's Notes**: In the Middle Ages, breakfasts were not the elaborate affairs of Victorian times. It was, in fact, practically nonexistent during the earlier medieval period, and quite sparse (by contemporary standards) in the latter years. To be able to have merely a _"sop in wine"_ (bread or toast in wine) every day for one's morning repast was considered luxurious. As time went by other items began to appear on the menu, such as cheese, smoked or preserved herring, trout and salmon, or salted fish such as ling, hake, cod, or whiting and the occasional slice of boiled beef. The breakfast prepared by Mrs. Turner is already considered quite a feast just to make John feel welcome. (Source: Godecookery)

A typical dining table setting in the high middle ages consisted mostly of the table linens, metal plates (silver and gold dishes in royal or noble households, wood for the lower classes) or trenchers (as already mentioned in a previous chapter) and mazers, used for soups (these were large, wide-mouthed cups, similar to what lattes are served in today, but without the handle). Spoons were fairly common. Forks were also known, but used primarily by cooks, not by those eating. These generally only had 2 prongs. An interesting bit of info not yet fully expanded in the fic is that guests were expected to bring their own knives to the table (in fact, it would have been considered déclassé to eat off someone else's knife). This knife was the primary eating utensil, used not only for cutting but also much the same way we use forks nowadays. Drinking vessels were usually made of wood or horn or metal. Wineglasses were considered to be extremely rare (Source: Elise K from yahoo answers and Medieval-spell)

The phrase "thin as a lath" was used by Stamford to describe Watson in ACD's "**A Study in Scarlet**". Monseigneur's murderous physician, Dr. Culverton Smith, is lifted from "**The Adventure of the Dying Detective**".

During the Medieval ages, there were no titles such as Mr. or Mrs. to refer to common folk. They were usually referred to by their full names.

In a medieval castle, **the Keep** is the highest or strongest tower and is situated at the heart of the castle's fortifications, making it the strong-hold. During medieval times, people would not have called it the Keep, they would have called it _don-jon_ (French for strong-hold) but because this is too easily confused with _dungeon_ (which John will be seeing for the first time in the next chapter!), the Keep will pertain to the main tower throughout this story. (Source: Exploring Castles- Medieval Castle Layout)

It may seem harsh that royal children got sent away from home early, but it was a fairly common practice then. Henry VIII sent the Princess Mary (the future Mary I, or Bloody Mary) from her mother's household to hold her own court as Princess of Wales in Ludlow Castle when she was ten years old. (Source: Wikipedia)


	19. Chapter 18

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 18**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Hello everyone! Many thanks for the reviews, as always! Please do let me know what you guys think. More notes can be found at the end of the chapter.

* * *

Monseigneur took John to see Mike Stamford after dinner was over.

It seemed his earlier churlishness was back. "I know what you're doing, John," he said as they made their way to the inner courtyards of the Lair. "Don't think I don't know what you're up to."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," replied John easily as he walked beside Monseigneur, quickening his steps to match the man's long, graceful strides.

"Billy," said Monseigneur succinctly. "Stop covering for the boy. As my page, he has to realize that there are consequences attached to everything he does or fails to do. He's here to learn all he can to take after his uncle, after all. He's responsible for you but don't suppose you're doing him any favors by covering for him whenever he trips up. Unless you want me going after you instead."

"Well, you didn't have to scare the living daylights out of him,' retorted John. "From the way you were carrying on back there, you'd think Billy's committed bloody murder. We were just late for dinner, not—"

Monseigneur stopped abruptly in his tracks and rounded on John. "I wait for no one, John," he snapped. "Not even you."

_So why __did__ you wait?_ John would have wanted to ask, though he very wisely did not.

Aloud, he said, "You know, that's not how it works in the real world. Delays and accidents do happen and things sometimes don't go the way you intend them to. You can't just blow up every time things don't go your way."

Monseigneur's lips thinned ominously as he stared at John. "You forget this isn't the outside world," he growled. "This is my realm. My Lair. Here, my word is law. Here, I don't wait for anyone. So long as you're here you're subject to the same rules as everybody else, John."

John stared back at him, surprised at the man's vehemence. He was not sure what was going on, why Monseigneur seemed so upset, and something about the man's words made John wonder. It was all so simple, really, to tell Monseigneur that he could have just gone ahead with the meal without waiting for him and Billy, but John instinctively knew this was going to lead to trouble. For reasons unknown, Monseigneur was spoiling for a fight today and John had the sneaking suspicion that he was being goaded into starting one for him. To hell with the man if he thought John could be lured into a nonsensical quarrel so easily.

"All right," John finally said. "I promise I won't ever be late for meals again."

Apparently, it was the wrong thing to say. He had meant it to be placating but it had come out as flippant instead. John actually felt something deep inside him quail as he saw Monseigneur's eyes narrow at his words. "So now you're mocking me. You think you're being very clever, don't you, John?" he asked coldly. "Or perhaps you think you're so favored that you're exempt from my rules or the consequences should they not be heeded?"

"I never said I was," John found himself saying. "Favored, I mean. And I'm not mocking you."

"Yes, you are," said Monseigneur. "And obviously, you're well aware of what it means to be a favorite."

John blinked, stymied once again by the man's words. He would not have put it that baldly, but yes, of course he had thought and wondered about it. How could he not after everything Monseigneur had subjected him to, so far? How could he not, after all that special attention in the garrison, that bit of cuddling in bed this morning? If _that_ was not a mark of favor, highly unusual and outrageous though it was, then John was not exactly sure what being favored meant.

"Am I your favorite then?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Considering his painful ambivalence to Monseigneur's attentions, John did not know what had made him say it, and he could see that it seemed to inflame Monseigneur's volatile temper further.

"Careful, John," said Monseigneur softly. "See to it that your impertinence knows its boundaries. Don't think you're special enough to be able to overstep them."

With that, he turned abruptly away, leaving John behind to look at him as though he had gone completely mad. What had brought this on? Talk about someone getting up on the wrong side of the bed!

After a moment, John resumed walking, following him from a discrete distance into the gardens.

* * *

John ought to have been prepared. After all, Mike Stamford had promised him that he would love Monseigneur's gardens, and indeed at first sight, the gardens— like everything else about the Lair— managed to take John's breath away.

To say that the gardens were extensive would have been quite an understatement. They comprised the entire inner courtyard of the Lair and beyond, so that the impression John had as he stepped into the realm of the plants was of the gardens being a separate world all to their own. The variety was enough to have John stopping periodically to inspect a new specimen before him. He knew a lot of the plants, but it was intriguing that there were quite a few that he was entirely unfamiliar with.

Yet he didn't have time to linger over them; Monseigneur was making his way resolutely to the very center of the gardens where a strange glass edifice stood. John had only a few seconds to gawk at the thing before he saw Monseingeur yank the doors to this wondrous structure open and stepped in.

"Mike!" He heard Monseigneur bellow.

John felt his jaw drop as he followed Monseigneur in and saw the contents of the glass house for the first time.

Flowers.

A profusion of them, a sudden riot of color in the quiet, green world they had just entered. Flowers all around— in great pots, in water, hanging in the air— most of them new to John.

After a moment, he saw Mike appear as though startled around a corner of this colorful jungle and scampered over to Monseigneur.

"My lord," he said in greeting.

"Mike, this is John Watson," said Monseigneur briefly, gesturing to John with a flick of his hand. "I'm sure you've already heard of him."

At Monseigneur's tone, Mike glanced uncertainly at John, who merely gave him a tight smile. Mike replied, "We've met, my lord. Over breakfast this morning."

"Good," drawled Monseigneur. "I shan't be bothered with introducing you to each other again, then. John will be joining you in our work. How is the infusion coming along?"

"It's coming along well, I would say," said Mike as he got into step with Monseigneur. "Thirty-six ingredients, so far. My lord was right in recommending honey to mix them once they have been pounded to a fine powder. I would suggest a drop or two of castor to mask the scent of the concoction, though."

"Thirty-seven ingredients now," said Monseigneur as he pulled out John's small bottle of medicine made from the White Star. "Have you a small batch of the infusion ready for testing?"

"Yes, my lord," replied Mike as he set about preparing a sample of the infusion from a large bottle.

Monseigneur took the vial finally handed to him. "I shall look forward to testing it amongst our subjects in the dungeons. See to it that I will not be disturbed from my work, and nobody is to enter the dungeons without my permission. Keep John with you and familiarize him with the gardens."

John stared at Monseigneur as he made his departure, leaving him behind with Mike.

Mike's shoulders slumped as he relaxed. "Well, that's that," he said, sounding relieved when he was sure Monseigneur was out of earshot.

"What was all that about?" John wanted to know.

"Oh. This," said Mike, gesturing at the bottle that he held in his hand. "This is what we've been working on for months— a poison antidote."

"What's in it?" asked John, taking the amber bottle to peer at the contents.

"Well, there's costmary, sweet flag, hypericum, gum, sagapenum, Ilyrian iris, even dried rose leaves, to name a few of the ingredients," Mike enumerated. "The ingredients have all been selected based on their medicinal properties. The infusion is not yet complete though. I'm not even sure if it's effective; that's the reason why Monseigneur will have to try it out in the dungeons."

John's attention was instantly diverted from the bottle in his hands. He knew he had to tread around the subject carefully and not show Mike just how deeply interested he was in finding out more about the place mentioned. "Really?" he found himself saying casually. "And what's in the dungeons?"

"Oh, he's never told you?" queried Mike.

John smiled and shook his head. "No."

"Well, you'll just have to wait until he does. We've been sworn not to divulge anything without his permission."

John was annoyed to find his heart sinking with intense disappointment at Mike's words. "Why?' he prodded. "What's in the dungeons to warrant such secrecy? He can't possibly have prisoners in there now, or can he?"

Mike laughed a little uneasily. John could see that he was ready to change the subject, so he pressed on, adding a little bit of coaxing into his tone, "Come on. You can tell me. I mean, I do understand his interest in poisons, having been a victim of not just one, but two poisoning attempts."

At Mike's look of astonishment, John gave a brief and colorless account of the events that had transpired in the garrison. If he hoped that by doing so he could relax Mike's guard, he was proven wrong.

"Listen, John," said Mike solemnly. "I need you to make a promise that you won't go wandering down the dungeons, especially without Monseigneur's express permission, and without other people knowing you're there."

John stared at him. "Why?" he asked.

"It's not a good place to be in," said Mike simply.

"You've been there, haven't you?" John said.

"Yes," said Mike, his face pale. And would say no more.

* * *

Of course, John thought resentfully, this deliberate holding back of information regarding the dungeons was the perfect way to stoke one's curiosity about the place.

For that first afternoon in Mike's company, he was given a tour of the glass house and introduced to the rare and exotic flowers residing there, all of them medicinal, all of them extremely hard to attain and maintain.

Afterwards, they left the glass house to explore the gardens outside, and John found that he could only give Mike half his attention as his mind ruminated over the riddle that was the dungeons.

Even the sight of the massive topiary— a maze cut out from hedges of yew that reached well above a man's height and spanning eighty feet by eighty feet— somehow failed to amaze John as it should.

"This is the Lady Mary's favorite place," said Mike as they walked past the entrance of the maze. "Nobody else can equal her knowledge of its paths, except perhaps Monseigneur. You ought to ask her to take you in sometime."

John merely made a noncommittal sound as they marched over the extensive grounds of the gardens to take in other plants and specimens that John would need to know by heart in the coming weeks.

Monseigneur did not appear for supper that night, and John seriously considered asking Billy once again what all the fuss was about regarding the nether regions of the Lair. But he had subjected Billy to so much trouble already, and he did not think it wise to ask the ladies about something that might prove sensitive and unfit for feminine ears.

Of course, there was one person to bring his questions to, but the man in question effectively made himself scarce in the next few days. Monseigneur would be gone for long stretches of time, emerging from the dungeons only to take his meals alone and at odd hours, sometimes skipping them altogether. He would be gone until the small hours of the morning, and John would wake to find the curtains around his bed shut tight.

Surely, the people around John would know he was curious about the dungeons, but it seemed they were all bent on never broaching the subject with him unless given permission by Monseigneur.

So John took to exploring whenever he had the chance, which presented itself on more than one occasion when everyone else was busy with multiple tasks. Given Monseigneur's small household, everyone was almost always preoccupied with various errands.

There were several passages that had caught his attention which may just lead him down to the dungeons. The first and most obvious route would be that of the wine cellar. He went down a passage that he knew the servants used whenever they went down to fetch bottles of wine. His progress was blocked by a heavy oak door, closed and bolted, requiring some heavy brass keys to open them. He could not ask for the keys without supplying a reason that would not raise suspicion as to his motives, and so far he could not think of any plausible excuse to be in this part of the castle.

There were other routes, but all of them led to doors sensibly barred from curious trespassers.

A few days later, he managed to come upon Monseigneur just before he could disappear into the dungeons. From the way the man was behaving towards him, John was almost tempted to think Monseigneur was deliberately avoiding him.

"How is it going with whatever it is you're doing down there?" he asked rather awkwardly.

Monseigneur only gave him a shuttered, sidelong glance before replying, "Very well, indeed, John."

John considered giving an excuse but finally settled for the truth. "I want to help," he said. "With your work. If you'd let me."

"I've already given you your tasks," replied Monseigneur implacably. "I want you to familiarize yourself with everything in the gardens. When I need you below I shall certainly let you know. Until then you will make sure not to go against my wishes by appearing in places that you're not wanted or needed."

That, John would later realize, was the bait guaranteed to lure him in.

He should have known that he would not be able to follow Monseigneur if he really did not want to be followed. He had once tried to tail him around the castle, intent on discovering his route to the dungeons, only to turn around a corner to find him gone. That was when John realized that the Lair was riddled with secret passages.

He should have realized that Monseigneur was being deliberate when he went through the bookcases in the bedroom and left a clue behind for John to pick up. Late one night, John was lying on his divan bed, wondering what the man was doing in the bowels of the castle, when his gaze alighted on the bookcases across the room. At first he was not sure what it was that had caught his attention. A closer inspection finally revealed a slight misalignment of the shelves which John had definitely not noticed until now. That, and a faint, cool draft that issued somewhere between the misaligned shelves which told John the hidden passage he was looking for was right there in front of him.

John bit his lip, barely breathing in excitement as he took hold of one part of the shelves and pulled. A portion of the shelf swung forward silently and John stared for a moment into the deep, cavernous darkness before him without so much as feeling a prickle of unease.

_There is only one logical thing to do_, he thought. And it had nothing to do with shutting the bookshelf back into place and backing the hell out of there. John refused to even consider the warning that Monseigneur had given him. He had basically told John that sooner or later he would need him down there anyway. What difference would it make if John were to go down there now? Unless he was hiding smomething from him.

Besides, he knew that Monseigneur would not have brought him all the way here only to do him in just because of a little bit of trespassing. Somehow, he could not imagine Monseigneur ever harming him.

Thus, armed with this logic, John grabbed a lighted candlestick and slowly made his way down the newly illuminated steps that spiraled ever downwards.

John should have known that something was not right when everything seemed so easy— too easy. He finally arrived at the bottom of the stairs to find a well-lighted tunnel with a huge, iron door open some distance away. An irresistible invitation.

He made his way silently over to the door and peered carefully inside.

A part of the dungeons, at last. He could see lighted torches lining the walls, revealing a large room equipped with work tables filled with Monseigneur's glasswares. There was nobody there: no prisoners awaiting death, and definitely no Monseigneur.

John swallowed and, disregarding the small voice of reason that screamed caution deep inside him, stepped into Monseigneur's dungeons.

One step inside. Two. And another one.

Every moment he expected Monseigneur to pop out from nowhere to make him jump out of his skin, but it seemed the chamber was really empty.

John looked around and took his fill of the curious room, noting the glasswares on the tables and the colored fluids in them. The tables themselves were odd. They were enormous, ancient-looking slabs of roughened wood with dark stains on their surfaces. Strangely enough, there were chains attached to some of them.

Huge, rusty chains that led to…

Before John could see where the chains on the tables led to, the dungeon door shut with a bang behind him. John started, dropping the candlestick that he held as he whipped around to see Monseigneur standing behind him.

* * *

**More author's notes**: The poison antidote being concocted by Mike and Monseigneur is based on **Mithradatium**, named after **Mithradates VI, King of Pontus (died 36 BC)**, whose lifelong fear of being poisoned led him to an in-depth study of poisons and to develop one of the most well-known antidotes in antiquity (possibly with the help of his court physician, Crateuas). Experimenting with different formulations and trying them out on condemned prisoners, he compounded various antidotes to produce a single universal one, which he hoped would protect him against any poison. A hundred years after the death of Mithridates, Celsus recorded the formulation, which comprised thirty-six ingredients, all of which are derived from plants, except for honey to mix them and castor to enhance the aroma. The concoction is estimated to have weighed approximately three pounds and to have lasted for six months, taken daily in the amount the size of an almond.

Pliny attributes to Mithridates another antidote with fifty-four ingredients and remarks that the king drank poison daily after first taking remedies to achieve immunity. He also experimented with antidotes derived from the blood of Pontic ducks, which, says Pliny, suffered no harm, even though they were supposed to live on poisonous plants. When Mithridates was defeated by Pompey, Mithridates tried to poison himself to avoid being captured. His wife and children, who were poisoned first, died readily enough, but his resistance was such that his poison exerted very little effect on him. He finally achieved his demise by means of the sword.

(Source: Mithradatum— University of Chicago Encyclopaedia Romana)

A nod to Rawr, whose fantastic review a few chapters back touched on Mithradatium. Here it is, my dear!


	20. Chapter 19

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 19**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Well, I thought this chapter was going to be easy to write, but it turns out I'm wrong! I've tried toning down the angst but there will be quite a bit left and there will be some bondage thrown in as well. The chapter may not be everyone's cup of tea. Please be advised. More notes can be found at the end of the chapter.

Kat, you are right as always, my dear! More of Monseigneur's POV to be found here.

Kilala-kun, many thanks for your suggestions. I've inserted some details here just for you!

* * *

_Really, this is all too easy,_ thought Monseigneur as he set about preparing his trap for John. _Too ridiculously easy as to be almost dull._

John Watson may have his attractions, but mystery certainly was not one of them. Dangle a little bit of bait in front of him and he would come running without even so much as bothering to mask his curiosity and eagerness. Once he came running, Monseigneur would only need to reel the bait in little by little by refusing him access to the trap, by telling him that he was not needed, and in no time at all John would be ensnared.

It was so elementary that it was almost boring. Except that it wasn't, because Monseigneur found that he was actually enjoying the game.

John's person was certainly one of the easiest to read. From their earliest encounter, Monseigneur had worked him out within seconds: a simple soul, clean and pure as the untrodden snow. Strong and stubborn but naïve. Certainly there were untold disasters in John's past, tragic enough to leave their mark on him and scarring him for life. Monseigneur was almost sure it had something to do with the death of somebody very close to John, but so far there was insufficient data to make further deductions. What Monseigneur found delectable about him was the fact that he could struggle against his demons and gain the upper hand— a measure of his strength. That, and the very blatant fact that John was deeply attracted to him from the very start.

It was a heady combination. As heady as the way John was struggling against his attraction to him every step of the way. There was something about John's reluctance that was very exciting, enthralling. Monseigneur was used to every sort of obeisance accorded him by everyone around him since he was a child and he was frankly bored with it. John was so different from anyone he had ever known and it was simply quite refreshing to have such a man to challenge. He had never tamed a Highlander before.

There could only be one winner here. He must ensure that John would lose this particular fight and acknowledge that he, Monseigneur, was his lord and master. Which he really was, anyway.

He needed John to surrender to him. He wanted to break John and do what he pleased with him, but he was too proud to snatch things from reluctant hands. Where was the challenge in that? He wanted John willing. He wanted to bring John to his knees. After all, from a very young age he had shown an aptitude for breaking things and bending people to his will.

But first he had to take care of certain things, seemingly trivial in their beginnings but problematic in the long run if not addressed immediately.

Monseigneur had first noticed it that morning when he had awakened to find himself all alone in his wide bed. As he had always been.

Until he had remembered John in his bed.

For a few hours before he had fallen asleep, he had not been alone. John had been there, warm and solid, beside him. The feel of John's body in his arms had been incredible, and he had been surprised and more than a little alarmed to feel John's absence so keenly when he had awakened to find him gone. He had not liked the feeling that had slashed at him like a knife— sharp, wounding. Entirely unexpected.

He had realized that it was happening again— that distressing sensation of falling, falling without anything or anyone to catch him, and lying there on his bed with a white arm flung over the empty space where John's body had rested, he had been overcome with a sense of panic as he remembered John in a variety of situations during the past, busy week: the way John had stared at him as he bared himself supposedly for his bath; the sharp, heavy twist of desire he had felt deep in his loins as he surprised John in the bathing tent, dripping wet from his recent bath and clad in nothing but a skimpy towel; the vague, delicious, nocturnal sounds he had heard from John as he lay in restless sleep (_what_ had he been dreaming about?).

Lying alone on that big, empty bed, he had been prey to all kinds of thoughts and speculations: how did John feel about all this, about him? Not that it really mattered, but still. Would John turn haughty at the realization that he was being favored by his attentions? Would he turn nasty? Would John use this newfound power to turn against him and use it to manipulate him? Could he really bring himself to think that John _actually_ had power over him?

It had happened once before. He had barely escaped being burned, once. He must not let it happen again.

Possession must never go both ways. He must never let the things and the people that he owned end up owning him. He could make John want him, need him, but never the other way around.

And yet, the illogical feeling of vulnerability had not gone away as the day progressed. Much to his annoyance, it had only gotten worse. He had started reading all sorts of things into John's simplest actions. John's belated appearance at dinner together with Billy had set off a jealous rage so intense that it was appalling. Never mind that he knew Billy could be completely trusted; the fact remained that John had been with a person other than himself and had enjoyed the other person's company enough to have forgotten the time, so much so that he had been kept waiting at his own table. Monseigneur had never seen the like. And the wink! John's tiny wink at Billy's direction— what cheek! Obviously, John had thought he was capable of mollifying him, Monseigneur!

John ought to be taught a lesson. He needed to know his place in Monseigneur's world, the sooner the better. Monseigneur did not think he would be able to bear it if John were to change and lose that beguiling purity, to grow spoiled and arrogant as favorites tended to do over time. He knew he would derive considerable pleasure in chastising John and having him completely at his mercy.

That was when Monseigneur had decided a trip to the dungeons for John was in order.

* * *

Everything was ready at last. Tonight was definitely the night that John would walk into his trap. There was no way he could miss that crack in the bookshelves that would lead him right into the palm of Monseigneur's hand. The most delicious thing of all was that John would have nobody to blame but himself for directly defying Monseigneur's orders.

Monseigneur sat down to do his experiments for a while, knowing John would not be making his move until bedtime. Everything, including John, fell away for the time being as he took out the vial of herbal infusion Mike had given him and added a few drops of John's medicine into it. There were tests to be done on the infusion and he set about doing each of them quickly, methodically.

Everything seemed in order. The infusion seemed stable with the addition of the White Star. Monseigneur wondered whether the potion would be strong enough now to counteract the effect of poisoned mushrooms. There was only one way to find out: he would need to test it on the subjects and see whether they would fare better than their predecessors. Thoughtfully, he placed a few drops into his palm and licked it, tasting the bitter concoction. Mike was right: it needed some castor oil to mask the scent.

Monseigneur worked steadily on until it was bedtime at last.

Time to play.

He set aside his experiment and got up from his worktable to throw the heavy iron door of the chamber wide open, gazing up at the spiral stone steps where his quarry would descend.

The fun should begin any minute now.

* * *

Minutes passed, then a full hour, and Monseigneur took to pacing.

_What is this?_ He wondered impatiently. Had John somehow gone to sleep and missed that clue in the bookshelves? Had he needed something more obvious to draw his attention? Of course, he knew John was no genius but he never realized he would be this thick—

A faint glow of light down the spiral stairs at last, growing ever nearer. Quickly, silently, Monseigneur got behind the iron door.

John was careful. He was slow, so very, _impossibly_ slow! He lingered by the threshold of the door for so long, just peering into the chamber, that Monseigneur feared he might just bow to reason at the last minute and go back the way he had come.

Ah, but at last, John took his first, doomed step into the chamber. And another. And another. Until he stood in the middle of the huge, echoing room, clad simply in a nightshirt and a flimsy robe, his stance alert as he looked around with interest.

Pressed against the wall behind the door, Monseigneur watched him for a moment, elation and triumph a potent mixture that ran in his veins like something sweet and molten.

His captive. His John. Here, at last. Right where he wanted him.

Lifting a hand, he shoved the heavy door in front of him with all his strength so that it swung shut with a loud bang, making John jump and drop his candlestick as he whipped around, eyes wide with surprise and his body instantly going rigid with tension.

Monseigneur gave him no time to think. He pounced, fisting a handful of John's shirt at the middle of his chest and shoving him backward, backward towards the wall. John was so taken unawares that it never even occurred to him to shout or to cry out. A harsh intake of breath was all he could muster before his hands went instinctively around Monseigneur's, trying to stop him, stop the momentum as he was hurled relentlessly back.

There was no stopping the force of Monseigneur's onslaught though. He slammed John against the wall, knocking his breath from him. Before John could get his bearings, hard fingers bit into his wrists as Monseigneur drew his hands high above his head. A dreadful, metallic _click!_ and Monseigneur's fingers were replaced by cold, hard steel that encircled John's wrists.

John's gaze snapped upwards, staring in disbelief at his imprisoned hands. Oh, bloody hell, he was manacled to the _bloody_ wall! Oh, bloody_ fuck!_

His breathing harsh in his ears, John strained against his manacles briefly before realizing the futility of his actions. He glared at Monseigneur even as the man placed both hands on the wall at either side of his head and leaned in to gloat over him.

"Well now, look who's decided to pay a nighttime visit," Monseigneur drawled, smiling. "Against my orders, I might add."

John stared unflinchingly at Monseigneur's masked visage even as he contemplated directing a knee against the man's groin.

"Careful now, John," warned Monseigneur, accurately reading John's intentions in his eyes. "Use your legs against me and I'll have them chained down, if that's what you would prefer. Or perhaps you'd want me to use the Knee Splitter on you. Considering what this chamber was used for in olden times, I'm sure there must be one lying around here somewhere, and that way perhaps we can also test the common saying about maimed prisoners being better lovers to see if there's any truth behind it."

A flare of outrage deep in John's blue eyes. Monseigneur watched, fascinated, as John's pupils dilated and his mouth thinned at his words. There was nothing he would like more than to touch John now, but he kept his eagerness in check with absolute discipline.

"My strong warrior, brave to the point of recklessness. Aren't you afraid of the consequences of disobeying me? Don't you know there is much talk that your lord is a freak who keeps countless male prisoners in these very chambers for sex?" Monseigneur goaded.

John's eyes widened a fraction and involuntarily slid away from Monseigneur to scan the room briefly, as if expecting to see those prisoners huddled in a dark corner. Monseigneur nearly laughed. He could read recognition in John's face as he uttered those words, but not surprise. So John was familiar with the rumors.

"What can we deduce of your actions then?" continued Monseigneur. "First you show up in my bed and now this, despite everything you've heard of my reputation. You're practically throwing yourself at me, aren't you? Whatever happened to your advice that I'd better not hold my breath, waiting for you?"

Still no answer from John as he continued to stare defiantly at Monseigneur, his heaving chest the only indication of his distress. He must be careful not to give the man anything to get off on: no fear, no anguish, certainly no frightened or angry words that Monseigneur would enjoy hurling back at him.

"Why can't you ever do as you're told?" asked Monseigneur, his voice deceptively soft as he pinned his prisoner with an intense gaze. "Surely you know that defying me is a dangerous enterprise, yet here you are. Do you derive much satisfaction from refusing to heed me? Or do you simply get off on the idea of punishment?"

"You planned all of this, didn't you?" accused John, suddenly finding his voice. "This was all deliberate on your part. You _know_ I'd walk straight into your trap—"

"I simply laid a trap, John," Monseigneur purred. "You did all the walking into it. The question is: why do you do it when you know very well that there are heavy consequences attached?"

He reached up a hand as he spoke and very deliberately touched the side of John's face with the tips of his fingers, trailing them lightly down his jaw, his neck, over his chest. The searing warmth and moistness, felt through John's thin shirt, instantly registered with Monseigneur. John was sweating. His pores had opened and Monseigneur could smell his desperation, even his arousal- so different from his scent as he lay sleeping in clean linen. If he had smelled good in bed, this was even better- musky, exquisitely masculine. Almost against his will, Monseigneur found himself leaning down to brush the tip of his nose against John's neck the better to breathe him in. He knew John's sweat would be clean and lickable, but how would it taste like? How salty would it be? Soon. He would know soon enough.

John flinched from Monseigneur's touch but it was not enough to stop the man from laying a hand more fully over him. Monseigneur could feel John's heart pounding beneath his hand.

"Go ahead," Monseigneur murmured, lifting his gaze to John's face as John struggled briefly but violently with his manacles. "I like to hear you announce how you cannot escape."

John instantly desisted, his breathing heavy, almost panting.

"You haven't answered my question, John," said Monseigneur conversationally. "Tell me why this reckless urge to defy me at every turn. You enjoy it, don't you? Do you think you're above the consequences? You've overstepped your limits this time, my friend."

John bit his lip, hard. He shook his head and opened his mouth, only to have Monseigneur cut him off by saying, "I do hope you're not going to cite your blasted curiosity as the culprit yet again. It's unbearably dull to be parroting the same excuse over and over."

Monseigneur's tone hardened as he continued, "You're in a bad position, John. This isn't like any of the previous times you've struggled against me. This time you've disobeyed a direct command from me. It's unacceptable. I'll have to take action."

John lifted his chin slightly. "What are you going to do?" he asked. A challenge.

Monseigneur said, "You will need to be punished."

And smiled.

* * *

"In what form will your punishment take, you wonder?" asked Monseigneur. "You're a soldier, John. You're used to physical pain. Back in the garrison, Lestrade's punches barely registered with you. I'm afraid that you will find corporal punishment incredibly dull. We'll have to resort to something more imaginative."

John's racing heart gave an odd lurch as he realized Monseigneur's intentions. Of course, he should have known Monseigneur would resort to something cruel and unusual. But then, hadn't he always known?

Hadn't he known that the next thing Monseigneur was going to attempt was to kiss him?

John tried for exasperation even as he fought to suppress a shudder that was equal parts anticipation and revulsion. "Look, how plain do you need me to be?" he said. "I've already told you that I'm not interested in your games."

Something in Monseigneur seemed to snap as he heard John's words, laced with just the right amount of disgust to sting effectively. "Aren't you, John?" he growled, at the end of his patience at last. Between one breath and the next, he closed the distance between them, crushing John's body against the wall as he leaned in. "Aren't you interested? Your body begs to differ, I'm afraid."

Monseigneur reached out a hand to grab at the back of John's head just as he was about to turn away from him. He tilted John's head, forcing him to remain still as Monseigneur's mouth claimed his for their first, savage kiss. John had to force his lips shut against that warm, questing mouth as it ground against his.

Until now John had only ever kissed women. He had not known what to expect with a man's kisses, and indeed, it had never occurred to him to want to know. Until, perhaps, now. And certainly, he had not expected this. There was nothing soft or gentle about Monseigneur's lips. They were firm and warm and very sure. Worse, they were not unpleasant at all. John could feel unwanted desire flare inside him like a flame at the touch of the man's mouth on his.

The texture of the kiss was different. New. Everything about Monseigneur felt different. Disturbingly intoxicating. John tried to turn his head away and he felt the faint beginnings of a stubble on Monseigneur's cheek and his chin as his face scraped against his. That little detail was, perhaps, the one thing that made John realize that this- all of this- was real.

He was being kissed by a man. This was no dream. This was actually happening, right now.

Desire spread within John like wildfire. It had been so long since he had had anyone. Five years was too long. John found that he had to fight to keep himself from responding instinctively by surging against Monseigneur's body, long and hard and aroused. Just like his.

With great difficulty, John curbed in the desire running rampant within him and forced himself to relax, not giving in but not fighting Monseigneur either. It seemed to work. After a moment, he felt Monseigneur tear away from him. The moist sound of their mouths parting was obscenely loud in the silence of the chamber that was saturated with centuries of pain. Much to his appalled embarrassment, John found that he had to stop himself from licking his lips.

"You're a liar on top of everything else," Monseigneur said, sounding oddly winded. "No matter how you will deny it, your body has betrayed you time and again these past few days. You're hard even as we speak. I know you want me, John. You know it, too. Stop fighting me and perhaps I will desist in my games. Take the easy way out and give in to me now."

"You're right," John found himself saying, his voice not quite steady. "You're absolutely right: it's all in my body. But that's just what it is— a bodily reaction. Nothing but. We're men after all, Sherlock. You and I. Since when did we ever consider our bodily reactions to mean anything much?"

Monseigneur's eyes narrowed to icy blue slits. "What…did you just call me?" he said, his voice going dangerously soft.

John sensed an opportunity and seized it. "Sherlock," he repeated quite boldly. "That's your name, isn't it?"

Whatever remained of Monseigneur's composure seemed to shatter in that instant. For a moment John felt he was really in danger of getting killed as Monseigneur lunged at him. Then, as though remembering himself, Monseigneur reined in his sudden fury. "You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you?' he asked.

John ignored Monseigneur's words and said, "I don't…I _can't."_

He knew he was not exactly being coherent, but he couldn't bring himself to continue. But what he had just said was the truth, in a way. He could very well end up wanting Monseigneur and giving in to lust, but Mary had taken away his heart. There was nothing left of it to give to anyone.

Monseigneur, of course, did not understand. John felt the man's hands tighten into fists in his nightshirt, bunching the cloth so that it tore a little in his hard grasp. "After everything you've been through, you're still saying you don't like men, no matter how much your body would say otherwise. Well, we'll just have to see about that," Monseigneur said coldly. "Your punishment isn't over yet. Not by a long way. I suppose I should thank you for clarifying where our actual battlefield lies, but you forget that you're my man now, John, to do as I please. There will be no escaping me. Your captive heart is mine, along with everything else about you."

Monseigneur abruptly released him and strode away, out of the chambers. Long minutes passed and just when John was starting to fear that he had been left behind to spend the night under such ignominious and painful circumstances, Monseigneur returned, looking distinctively calmer. Back in control and as cold as ice.

"Disobey me once again, especially in front of my brother when he arrives in two days' time, and you will find yourself spending your nights here, chained to this wall," Monseigneur said, reaching up to free John from the manacles. "You have my word on it."

John felt his heavy, lifeless arms fall to his sides, the numbness quickly giving way to the prickly sensation of pins and needles as blood started to circulate properly once again in his limbs. He leaned against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, his legs trembling and feeling curiously weak. He knew there would be bruises around his wrists but it was nothing compared to the blow he had delivered against Monseigneur. Nothing compared to what Monseigneur would have in store for him now.

"Leave!" ordered Monseigneur curtly.

This time, John obeyed.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The **knee splitter** as mentioned by Monseigneur is one of many gruesome instruments used during the Medieval Ages for torture. It was a popular device used during the Inquisition and it lives up to its name by splitting victims' knees and rendering them useless. Built from two spiked wood blocks, the knee splitter is placed on top of and behind the knee of its victims. Two large screws connecting the blocks are then turned, causing the two blocks to close towards each other and effectively destroy a victim's knee. This device could also be used to inflict damage on other parts of the body such as the arms. Other medieval torture devices with colorful names include the **head crusher, Cat's Paw, Scavenger's Daughter, Judas Chair, Spanish Donkey, Choke Pear, **and** Crocodile Shears**, among others. (Source: ListVerse)

There is an idea (of unknown origin) that maimed individuals are supposedly better lovers. I know I've read this somewhere before but I can't remember where and I can't seem to be able to trace this anywhere in the Net. I'm not even sure whether this is just a piece of fiction or rooted in superstition. If you guys know anything about this, please do let me know. Many thanks!


	21. Chapter 20

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 20**

* * *

**Author's notes**: Very early on in the story, I was asked why I chose to use fairly modern language settings for our characters. Rest assured, it was very deliberate on my part, as we shall see in this chapter. More explanations and author's notes at the end. Enjoy!

* * *

John did not have much time to recover from his ordeal in the dungeons. There simply wasn't time. The Gaaldinian king was due to arrive in two days and everyone in the castle was in a frenzy to finish all preparations before the royal guest arrived.

Throughout the day, John was dragged from one task to another as he received hasty instructions from Billy, Lady Hudson and the Lady Mary on the proper etiquette necessary to conduct himself in front of His Most Tedious Majesty, as John had come to call Monseigneur's brother in his mind.

Because, really, this was all an exercise in tedium. Everything had to be rehearsed from the proper way to approach the King to the way John had to bow in front of him; from the way the King was to be addressed to the way he may reply when addressed by His Majesty.

He had to mime the silly, fawning movements that Billy and the Lady Mary showed him for special occasions; he had to be taught the proper table manners; he had to rehearse certain bits of tête-à-tête with Lady Hudson just in case his conversation was required to entertain the royal personage who would doubtless be interested in him. Apparently, his accent was so thick that Lady Hudson could not understand a word he was saying half the time. He took all the lessons in stride and without complaint, silently relegating them to the back of his head where they would never be recalled into service.

He just could not pay proper attention to these inanities when his mind was busily engaged elsewhere.

He had not seen or heard from Monseigneur since last night which, he told himself, was really quite a blessing. It was fine- more than fine!- if the man had decided to leave him alone from now on. After all, what was there to be said between them after the incident in the dungeons? There were no words capable of shaping John's thoughts and feelings with what nearly transpired between them in that ghastly chamber.

There were no words for the occasion, but John did think and feel deeply about it. The memories were incessantly upon him, in fact. He couldn't get the events out of his mind and was tortured with the tiniest details that would arise, unbidden, to grip him at the most inopportune moments: the feel of long, white fingers trailing down lightly, teasingly over the side of his face, his chest; the feel of warm, firm lips crushing against his own; pale eyes made of fire and ice that could impale and caress at the same time. The novel sensation of a man's slightly stubbled cheek and chin scraping against his.

And words, words, always his words as though Monseigneur were breathing them for the first time against his ear: _Your captive heart is mine… _

It was the words wrapped in the velvet rasp of Monseigneur's voice which, more than anything else, had the power to strike at John and leave him breathless with outrage. And with helpless, blind arousal— heedless of who had stoked it to life— which did nothing but add to the fury he felt toward the man and at himself.

Because what kind of a deviant was Monseigneur, really, to subject him to this kind of treatment? And indeed, what kind of a deviant was he, John, to endure Monseigneur's treatment and feel _desire _for the manmore than a righteous sense of having been wronged?

Whatever he was feeling was not normal, let alone right. It was unholy, unclean, as black as sin. It stood against every belief he had ever been taught to uphold. He was sinning just by recalling Monseigneur's touch without feeling the appropriate amount of revulsion. To be sure, he felt quite bit of disgust, but not enough. His emotions were conflicted, his indignation heavily tainted with an answering lust, an unnatural longing for more. Oh, so much more than Monseigneur's kiss.

This was what it meant to fall from grace. He was now truly infected by Monseigneur's special madness.

As a soldier, John had seen the depths to which men could descend when deprived of certain necessities for a long time. Honor and pride be damned when the body was overcome with urges that needed satisfying. But somehow, these five years after losing Mary, he had scraped through. He had thought himself capable of rising above sheer animalistic needs. And for Monseigneur to take that conviction away from him now was nothing short of terrifying, enraging.

Why did he have to be attracted to a man? Why _this_ man, in particular? Why now? Was he really so starved that he could set aside his usual preferences to feast on something exotic and unusual when it presented itself?

As a test, John tried to think of Mary. He tried to conjure her golden radiance every time his treacherous thoughts threatened to turn to the events in the dungeons, but the memory of Mary was insufficient under the onslaught of that dark desire that was now so firmly entrenched in his gut, awakening without fail whenever he thought of Monseigneur. Worse, it was unworthy of him to defile the sacred memory of Mary by trying to conjure her as a shield against this particular demon. After a while, he could not bear to think of Mary together with Monseigneur. It was indecent, obscene.

Yet something had to be done; otherwise, John thought he would perish from want. Lying alone on his divan that night and taking advantage of Monseigneur's absence from the bedroom, John let down his defenses enough to give himself pleasure— quick, rough, brutally wonderful. But the relief was temporary. So temporary. The emptiness returned as soon as John's sated body had settled down to normal.

With the emptiness came resentment, anger. _This_, thought John, _is all that man's fucking fault!_

He glared at the direction of the bookcases, willing the bastard to appear before him and thinking which choice insults he ought to hurl at Monseigneur's head when he finally made his appearance. But Monseigneur did not come, and John woke up the following day to find his bed had not been slept in.

So he really was avoiding him. Odd though, that Monseigneur would relinquish the use of his quarters instead of having John thrown out of them.

_Well, to hell with him_, thought John grimly as he got dressed. He was annoyed at having to remind himself that he was the victim here. After what he had gone through, he was not going to spend the rest of his day _moping _after the man. It was just completely, utterly sick.

Lestrade arrived later that day, giving John a most welcome distraction. He was accompanied by Donovan and a sour-faced Anderson. And bags upon bags of items collected from the forests around the garrison.

"Well, John, it's good to see you again," said Lestrade cheerfully as he finally came upon him in the line of people who had gathered to welcome him back. He laid a heavy paw upon John's shoulder. "See how much inconvenience you've cost us on top of having a garrison to close down. I daresay we made quite a sight, indeed: some of Gaaldine's finest and battle-hardened soldiers skipping through wood and glen with bags, plucking off all the white flowers we can find, not to mention stripping quite a bit of the trees of their bark. And of course, all the mushrooms and fungi you would ever desire."

John smiled, amazed that he would ever find Lestrade a sight for sore eyes. "The garrison's been shut down then?" he asked.

"On its way," said Lestrade as they moved into the grand hall. "It will take another fortnight but it's in good hands. It will still be there when I get back. I can't wait for it to close down entirely when I've been summoned by royal command to be here for a few days to wait upon the King."."

John raised his brows at that but said nothing. He had gleaned from previous conversations that Lestrade was the King's man before he was assigned to serve Monseigneur, after all.

Lestrade was looking around him. "Monseigneur is busy?" he inquired, noting the absence of his lord.

"Yes, well, you know how he is," remarked John off-handedly. Something of his resentment must have shown in his tone, for Lestrade glanced at him briefly before looking away again.

"Right. Anyway, it doesn't matter," said Lestrade, moving on to talk to Lady Hudson at greater length. "I'm sure he's busy with his own preparations for meeting His Majesty."

Donovan and Anderson filed past John as they trailed after Lestrade, with Donovan casting him a sly glance from the corner of her eye. John stared back at her with a bland equanimity he was far from feeling.

Suddenly, he hated Monseigneur for proving the rumors, and Sally Donovan, right.

* * *

Apparently, Monseigneur had enough time to spare that evening to sit down with Lestrade for supper. Minus everyone else, including John.

John raised his brows and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he sat within the merry circle of people headed by Lady Hudson in the smaller dining room where they had taken their first breakfast. Beyond the door, John could hear the warm, cheerful bustle of the nearby kitchens.

_To hell with him_, he reminded himself as he passed Billy a small basket of fresh bread, warm and fragrant from the ovens. After all, who would want to be sitting in the chill formality of that drafty dining hall, having to talk to an equally icy Monseigneur and eating from dishes which have cooled after their long trek from the kitchens? Poor Lestrade, having to endure all that and missing out on the laughter and banter of this tightly knit, delightful company before John.

They ate heartily, exchanging stories and listening to Anderson talk expansively of the many curious things he had seen in his campaigns with Lord Lestrade. The man was insufferably full of himself, but even John had to admit that his accounts of garrison life were quite amusing. Was that what had drawn Sally Donovan to him?

John glanced across the table at Donovan to find that she was actually looking at him with a speculative gaze. John could almost imagine a pair of antennae on her head, twitching, as she stared at him. John looked away, firmly suppressing a derisive snort and focusing instead on the lively conversation around the table.

If he had hoped to beat a hasty and clean retreat after supper, John was to be proven sadly wrong.

"Well, John Watson, so here you are," said Sally as she sidled up to him after their group broke up for an early night.

"Yes, here I am," John said quite pleasantly. "Surprised to see me still alive after a week in the Lair?"

Sally smirked. "I don't see him inviting you to the ole grand table for supper. Has your novelty worn off so quickly?" she asked.

"He does let me out of the dungeons every once in a while to cavort among the living, if that's what you want to know," parried John smoothly as he grew annoyed.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. So far he had successfully hidden the ring of bruises around his wrists from view with the cuffs of his long shirt, but one could never be too careful around an Amazon.

_Really_, thought John in irritation. What's with the woman and her need to sink her sharpened claws into him, always, when it came to Monseigneur?

_Unless…_

Unexpected epiphany suddenly hit John as he continued to hold Sally Donovan's gaze.

_No_, he thought, looking Sally up and down in a new light.

_What happened between you and Monseigneur, Sally?_ John wondered. _As far as I can understand of your situation, you owe Monseigneur your freedom. You're no less a captive to his whims as I am. Did you think perhaps that he might have saved you from a lifetime of slavery because he was interested in your personal charms? Were you so foolish as to have shown your thoughts, perhaps even voiced them? Had he stung so much when he spurned your advances, so much so that you've found yourself trying to retaliate at any given opportunity ever since?_

John's thoughts were uncharitable in the extreme. He knew they were unworthy. He tried to banish them as quickly as they had entered his mind, but not quickly enough. Sally saw the change in his eyes, perhaps even saw the brief flash of pity, and a cold haughtiness settled in her dark gaze.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, the answer is no," said Sally shortly, drawing her dignity about her like a cloak.

"I'd say the same about what you're thinking of me," muttered John, thinking it wise not to pursue the matter further.

Sally let out a silent breath of laughter and relaxed her stance a bit. "I suppose I was laying it on a bit too thick," she conceded.

John let his shoulders slump slightly. "Why all the hostility?" he wanted to know.

"Because he's a freak, that's why," answered Sally bitterly. "It's like he can read people's minds. It's not right. I don't like it. Back where I came from he would have been branded as a witch. He gets on my nerves as he does everyone's. Except yours, maybe."

John gave her a tight, noncommittal smile and declined to comment. Instead, he nodded at the direction of the doorway where Anderson's lanky frame loomed, shoulders hunched a bit as he stared at John a bit resentfully. "Go on," he said. "Before he starts to get the wrong idea about us."

_Well, you're quite wrong, Sally, my lass_, thought John dryly as he watched her go. _He does get on my nerves, though not in the usual way. Which is why I'm bloody damned._

* * *

According to Lady Hudson, Glasstown was not a day's ride away from Elderidge. If one were to start the journey early in the morning, one would have arrived at the Lair by late afternoon.

Still, His Majesty's entourage was late. It was already well past suppertime when the royal coaches started arriving. Dressed in his uncomfortable new clothes and standing outside in the courtyard along with everyone else, John glanced at Monseigneur's stiff back as he stood beside Lestrade and knew that he was deeply, deeply annoyed.

His Majesty arrived in an impressive coach bearing his coat of arms, surrounded by an army of servants. Almost before the coach had stopped before Monseigneur and Lestrade, several servants were placing a small flight of steps in front of the coach's door, ready for His Majesty's descent.

The door of the coach was opened, and instead of a man coming out, a dog— unnaturally huge and slightly mangy, dark brown all over— loped out. John was struck by the hound's features- its face and muzzle were dark, as though it were wearing a mask, just as surely as its owner was wearing one. It made for Lestrade as though it knew him. Which it probably did.

"Baskerville!" exclaimed Lestrade, reaching down to scratch at the dog's large head even as Monseigneur let out an exasperated, "Oh, for God's sake! Must you bring that blasted beast with you everywhere you go?"

The king finally emerged, holding a walking stick in one hand. He descended the small steps gingerly with the aid of a servant as though they might give way at any moment.

He was a tall man, taller than Monseigneur, magnificently dressed in well-cut clothes of rich scarlet and gold and pale ivory, glittering with jewels. A dark hat was perched carefully on his head and a flowing black cape was slung across his shoulders, elaborately designed to conceal his tendency towards heaviness. In the same manner as the mask on his face was designed to conceal his features.

It was a strange mask. John was used to Monseigneur's black mask either of velvet or satin that stood in perfect contrast to his pale skin. His Majesty's mask was flesh-colored. It blended so smoothly into his features that for a moment, in the soft gloom of late evening, John had thought he was not wearing one at all.

"Now, now, what way is this to be greeting thy sovereign?" chided the king in a pleasant voice as he stopped before his brother. "I trust that thou art in excellent health, my dearest brother."

Monseigneur gave a soft grunt and declined to answer more fully. His rude demeanor gave the King pause, eyes carefully fixed on Monseigneur for a second longer than necessary before he extended a hand encrusted with rings for Lestrade to kiss. "And my Lord Lestrade, t'is always a felicitous occasion to see thee, _mon cher ami_ (my dear friend)," he said, his tone noticeably warming.

"It has been a while, your Majesty," answered Lestrade.

With the initial pleasantries behind them, Monseigneur turned unceremoniously to march his brother down the line of people waiting for him.

"You know very well the ladies, of course," he said quite shortly as Lady Hudson and the Lady Mary curtsied gracefully before the king. "I hope you remember young William, Lestrade's nephew. In fact, there's hardly an unfamiliar face here, except perhaps John Watson."

It took a moment for John to realize that he was frowning at Monseigneur's brusque introduction. This was the first time John had seen him since the episode in the dungeons and the man was not even looking at him as he pointed him out to the King. After a moment, John tore his gaze away from Monseigneur to bow briefly before the King as he had been taught. He straightened back to find himself being carefully scrutinized by a pair of deep blue eyes, deceptively mild.

_Leather_, thought John fleetingly as he gazed back at the King and his flesh-colored mask. Seen at this proximity, he looked like a person scalded, with no eyebrows. It was a bit disturbing.

"Ah yes," murmured His Majesty. "Your Highland healer."

Then, to John's surprise, the king suddenly asked in Angrian, "Ciamar a tha sibh, John Watson _(How are you)?"_

John glanced uncertainly at Monseigneur, who stood just behind the King and who only rolled his eyes briefly heavenward, unimpressed.

"Tha... gu math, tapadh leibh _(I...am well, thank you),"_ answered John cautiously.

The King smiled. "He says he is well," he said to nobody in particular.

A murmur of admiration from the crowd and a bit of sycophantic handclapping. For the first time since their encounter in the dungeons, Monseigneur looked straight at John, fixing him with an intense stare: _Don't get taken in, John. Not this easily..._

John frowned back at him, uncomprehending.

The King's next words did much to clarify things.

"Oh no," said His Majesty airily as he waved away the applause. "It was nothing at all. It is all done for the sake of mine future wife."

Then, voice dropping so that only those closest to him could hear, he sighed and muttered, "God only knows what else is to be expected of me upon this marriage."

Something about John's expression seemed to flatten and grow distant as he caught the dry, cold words, tinged with a little distaste. Monseigneur almost smiled with satisfaction. He turned away, hands behind his back, and trudged back to the castle with his royal brother by his side.

* * *

Dinner was a long and torturous affair. It was never anything otherwise when his brother came to visit.

Monseigneur could hardly sit still as the King droned on and on in Gondalian by his side. It was fortunate that Lestrade was at the receiving end of most of his brother's grating chatter and the lively music was loud enough to drown out his words.

The King was only staying for the weekend and he was hardly exaggerating when he said he only brought with him a skeleton crew of servants and courtiers. By that, of course, he meant a retinue of no less than fifty persons ranging from his private secretary and some gentlemen of the bedchamber to his lute players.

Bored and growing increasingly restless, Monseigneur cast a glance down the long table, his gaze unerringly resting on John who, at that particular moment, was just about to look away from him.

He would have wanted to tell John not be too obvious, that he was under observation from the very moment his brother had arrived, but he could not do so without risking further, unwanted attention from the King.

Already, he had seen his brother cast a glance or two at John as supper was served. Seemingly harmless, curious glances, but Monseigneur knew better. There was hardly any doubt in his mind that the King was already piecing together the puzzle that was John Watson and what he was doing here.

And John's looks were not helping at all. They were smoldering with rage and resentment, as though all John wanted to do was pointedly ignore Monseigneur only to find that he couldn't do so. Monseigneur, who knew the reason behind the dirty looks, could perfectly understand John's motivations. The king, who knew nothing, merely saw the looks as smoldering.

_John, look away. Just look away_, thought Monseigneur. But a part of him was taking perverse pleasure out of the realization that John could not look away from him in the same way that he, Monseigneur, could not leave the man alone with his eyes. It felt strangely gratifying to realize that John was far from being unaffected by what had happened between them. Because Monseigneur definitely could not say he had emerged from the experience unscathed, it was just as well that John had not, either.

Remembering those few, stark minutes when he had lost control of himself in the dungeons, Monseigneur could feel his gorge rising within him yet again. One moment he had been perfectly in control and the next moment, he had...slipped. He had lost his focus completely and bungled a procedure that should have been carefully calculated and coordinated. And all because of a few choice words from John.

He knew he should never have kissed John. Not when neither of them had been ready for it.

He remembered again the feel of John's lips beneath his and how much it had taken him to wrench himself away from them; those endless minutes when he had paced outside the dungeons, trying to calm down and get a hold of himself. He remembered the feel of his hands pressing hard against his burning face; the mask he had on had been quite useless- it could not contain his humiliation. And then John had gone, leaving him all alone. He had gripped the edge of a table for a long time, overcome with helpless rage at himself, at John. He had always prided himself in being able to keep his mind apart, distant, divorced from feelings. And this man had proven him wrong.

He had been wrong about John.

_How could he have been so wrong about John!_

Monseigneur suddenly emerged from his reverie to realize that the King had asked him something. Carefully, unhurriedly, he removed his gaze from John's direction and glanced at his brother, all the while thinking furiously what he had just been asked.

_Rooms...he was asking something about rooms... _

Monseigneur shrugged. "I care not which ones you use should you find the usual arrangements not to your liking," he said indifferently. "I am sure I shall have no choice but to accommodate your wishes, anyway."

The King's voice was an appreciative murmur: "The very soul of generosity, as always. Gramercy (thank you)."

A pause before the King asked delicately, "Perchance (Perhaps) thou would wish to tell me what thou art thinking right now, Sherlock?"

"Oh, I wish I can, though I am sure that I know not what my own thoughts can be," replied Monseigneur lightly as he drank his wine. "And do stop with the Courtspeak. It's driving me insane."

* * *

At last, there was a bit of time after supper when the King could engage in private conversation with Monseigneur and Lestrade. It was not something that Sherlock was looking forward to.

"You ought to have stayed in town for James' ordination as bishop," said the King, lapsing into more natural-sounding phrases in Gondalian as soon as they entered the suite of rooms that were allocated to him as his study whenever he came for his visits. "Splendid affair, of course. No expense spared. You know how the Moriartys are when it comes to their celebrations. Considering you're thick as thieves with him for several months running, everyone had something to say about your absence."

"I was ill," answered Monseigneur briefly. "Haven't you been reading my dispatches?"

"You're not fooling anyone, you know," said the King softly.

"Then how about this? I think it's a perfect sham that the Pope would elect his own nephew to the post of cardinal," said Monseigneur shortly. "Considering that I am fairly outspoken of my views, wouldn't you say it was all for the best that I stayed away?"

The King fixed him with a surprised look. "So you've been fighting with him?" he asked. "Was that the reason why you kept away?"

"Why? What did you think the real reason was?" said Monseigneur coldly. " Let's just say we're no longer friends. The name James Moriarty means absolutely nothing to me now. Why don't we change the subject and get on to your concerns? That's the reason why you're here, isn't it? Tell us what has been weighing on your mind urgently enough to necessitate this visit?"

True to his expectations, the King seemed to deflate a little into his chair. "The date has been set," said the King, his voice curiously flat as he rubbed his face with his hands. "I am to be married in less than three months' time."

"And what of the Angrian Queen's perceptions?" asked Monseigneur, sitting across from his brother and propping his legs on the edge of the table. "Does she find it agreeable to be married to you on such short notice?"

"I hardly think she has any more say in it than I," retorted the King, lifting his head from his hands to glare at Monseigneur. "She- Anna Thea- declared that the date is of little import so long as a wedding takes place. Through her ambassador, she...she has made it known that she wants children, before it's too late."

The King sounded a bit overwhelmed at the mention of children, a bit overwhelmed that his future bride would be indelicate enough to lay the facts bare before him in such a manner. It was quite clear that he had not bargained for such a woman- any woman- when he had thought of acquiring Angria.

"Well that settles it, then," drawled Monseigneur. "At least she speaks her mind quite clearly. You won't be left in the dark with regards your husbandly duties. Best to just get on with it. Just close your eyes and think of Gaaldine on your wedding night."

The King stared daggers at Monseigneur, who ignored his look. Behind him, Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably. "If I may, Your Majesty," he said quite gently, "I am quite sure the Queen is a lovely woman. Once you meet face to face and you get to talking with her, I am sure it will all turn out right. She has yet to speak with you, after all."

Monseigneur raised an eyebrow at that. "Quite," he said dryly, removing his legs from the table and standing up in one fluid motion. "I'd wish her the best of luck on that. Now, if there is nothing else...?"

"There is," said the King wearily. "But there is no hurry. We can talk about it tomorrow. Good night, Sherlock."

_Really_, thought Monseigneur disgustedly as he left the King's apartments. If Mycroft had only intended to pour his heart out to Lestrade, he ought to have left him out of it completely.

But then he understood that a garrison was hardly a place for a king to be comforted by his favorite general and all-around best friend, and the Glasstown palaces, infested with courtiers and laden with intrigue, were even less so. These things required some privacy lest grave misunderstandings should occur.

What must be happening now behind those closed doors? Would Mycroft be weeping in Lestrade's arms just about now? If truth be told, Monseigneur could not quite imagine it. He simply could not imagine his brother capable of weeping. Unless it was to weep little droplets of ice.

At the thought of the King's favorite, Sherlock found himself suddenly thinking of John, of what it meant to have a favorite of his own.

And there it was again- that strange, hard twist deep in the center of his chest. An actual ache, whenever John turned up in his thoughts, which was happening more and more as the days went by.

_No_, he thought, frowning, feeling a wave of anger and confusion wash over him as he clutched at his chest. _Impossible._

He had been reliably informed that he did not have one.

John may be a good healer but surely even he would not be able to conjure a heart from thin air.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I have reserved Old English (or, at least, bits and pieces of it) for Mycroft's use as part of Courtspeak, or the stilted ways of speech used in Gaaldinian court circles whenever they're not speaking in Gondalian. I have often found it hilarious when historical romance novelists would insert words like "T'is" or "Aye" or "Nay" in an otherwise modern-sounding sentence just to add a bit of authenticity to their characters' way of talking. I do realize, though, just how difficult and awkward it is to use Old English convincingly in a historical romance. Here, I have decided to use the archaic forms of words to render Mycroft's speech highly artificial (and as a way of poking fun at historical romances). I hope I have succeeded. (Sources for Old English words: Medieval Faire and Medieval England- A Phrase Book. There is even an Old English translator at oldenglishtranslator . org . uk)

The Scottish Gaelic phrases are courtesy of scotgaelic . tripod . com.

His Majesty's dog, Baskerville, is fashioned as a prototype of the **English Mastiff**. Referred to by most kennel clubs simply as the **Mastiff**, it is a breed of large dog perhaps descended from the ancient Alaunt (an extinct breed of shepherd dog) through the _Pugnaces Britanniae_. Distinguishable by its enormous size, massive head, and a limited range of colors, but _always displaying a black mask_, the Mastiff is noted for its gentle temperament. The lineage of modern dogs can be traced back to the early 19th century, and the modern type was stabilized only in the 1880s. (Source: Wikipedia)

**Nepotism**, an interesting word. Derived from the Italian for _"nepote"_ or nephew, it is used to indicate favoritism granted to relatives regardless of merit, with the Popes of the Medieval Ages being notorious practitioners. (Source: Wikipedia)

The saying "Close your eyes and think of England (Gaaldine)" is a reference to unwanted sexual intercourse - usually, it serves as advice to an unwilling wife when sexually approached by her husband, although it works just as well the other way around as in the case of Mycroft. Mischievously enough, the phrase sometimes has been attributed to Queen Victoria, although this is largely speculative and seemingly unlikely, as it is widely known that she had a very fulfilling and happy marriage to Prince Albert and their union produced nine royal children. (Source: Phrases . org . uk)


	22. Chapter 21

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 21**

* * *

**Special thanks:** To PlumpPushu, who provided not one, but _two_ sets of French translations for the exchange between Monseigneur and the King in this chapter. Can anyone be more awesome? She very kindly provided a choice of using the formal/polite or the familiar forms of address. I figured since this is a row between the brothers, Sherlock will definitely not be polite to Mycroft, hehe.

To Sher_locked_up, for doing an amazing, amazing job beta-reading this chapter and knocking it into better shape.

Thanks so much, my dears!

* * *

**Author's notes**: For the sake of convenience (and to save us from having to scroll up and down the page continuously), I would normally place the English translation of a French passage immediately after the passage. However, for this chapter, some of the French passages have been laid out to provide us with John's perspective and how he heard the argument between Sherlock and Mycroft (i.e. initially the words were incomprehensible to him, so I temporarily left out the translations for those lines). Please scroll down to the end of the chapter for the English translations.

More notes can be found at the end of the chapter.

* * *

The King did weep; long and copiously, with Lestrade lending an awkward but reassuring hand on one shoulder. Considering how long they had been friends, Lestrade had never seen the King in such distress, except perhaps on only two other occasions in the past: the death of the old king, and when Monseigneur was thirteen years of age.

"I never wanted to remarry," the King said over and over. "It is God's will if my wife has left me with no issue."

Lestrade's hand merely tightened on His Majesty's shaking shoulder. While the King's words may be true, his Queen had also departed quite prematurely for the afterlife just a year before, putting a decisive end to the possibility of royal heirs ever appearing on the scene unless the King remarried, or (and this was more far-fetched) if Monseigneur did. The dead queen was barely cold in her beautifully sculpted tomb when Parliament had convened to discuss the subject of the King's next marriage, an important affair of state.

It was a stroke of Providence, to be taken almost as a sign from the heavens, members of the Gaaldinian Parliament had declared unanimously, that a solution aside from war with Angria was conveniently at hand to soothe troubled relations between the two nations. Let others wage war; we, happy Gaaldine, marry!

Of course, it had all depended on whether Angria's queen, who had long been a widow herself and wily enough to evade a second state of matrimony being constantly pressed upon her by her unruly nobility, would consider the match that His Majesty's ambassador had dangled before her. Her reaction had been as unflatteringly lukewarm as Mycroft's.

Infuriatingly, she had held out for a few months, examining the proposal, weighing the advantages and disadvantages, once even threatening to pull out of the negotiations when the King had suddenly balked and suggested Monseigneur for the post of bridegroom instead. And underneath all the present drama lay old resentments as thwarted plans from nearly a lifetime ago had finally come full circle: the old king had tried to secure the hand of the three year old Anna Thea for seven year old Mycroft, only to meet with point-blank refusal from the prospective bride's parents. They had feared a reprisal (or an abduction), so for good measure, they had sent the little princess away at the age of five, promising her hand to a prince from some distant kingdom beyond Gaaldinian concerns and influence. It had been such a clear insult to the King of Gaaldine that war had very nearly broken out between the two countries then and there.

Such was the distrust simmering constantly between Angria and Gaaldine for hundreds of years. And now everyone was suddenly expecting both countries to set aside their differences and join hands in matrimony. Mycroft could not believe it, and Anna Thea's eyes had been as big as dinner plates, the Gaaldinian ambassador had faithfully reported back to the King, when he first informed her of the King's intentions. It was completely farcical, and yet Gaaldinians had taken to the notion of a royal wedding almost at once. They had not had one for almost twenty years.

The Angrians had been more cautious. Anna Thea probably would have held it all off for much longer if the King had not lost a bit of his famous patience and, with Parliament's full sanction, had ordered his armies to start their march toward the frontier. This tactic, Lestrade knew, was His Majesty's preferred method of taking Angria, but the ensuing loss of life would have been inexcusable especially when a peaceful alternative was in sight.

So now the King wept, and for the greater part of an hour that night, Lestrade silently gave his friend a comforting hand and finally, an arm and a shoulder, to lean on.

"God help me, Gregory," said the King after he had recovered his composure a little, "I have become maudlin in my old age."

Lestrade gave a small smile. "Your Majesty can afford to be," he said. "Marriage comes but once or twice in a man's life, after all."

The King sighed. "I am too old to be a bridegroom."

"Your Majesty is only two and thirty," Lestrade reminded him.

"Wouldn't you say she is closer in age to Monseigneur?" The King's tone was a bit desperate. "Surely if she were only to see him in person and disregard all she has heard…"

Lestrade struggled not to snort. "If you will recall Monseigneur's nine year old betrothed and her famous words before she trounced out of his presence almost ten years ago, Your Majesty."

The King seemed to remember something at the mention of Monseigneur. "Well, he won't be getting off so easily this time, I'm afraid," he said, finally detaching himself from his friend's arm. "Nothing has changed. They are still betrothed, after all. How shall the world be if we are to base our decisions on the opinions of two _children_ who had disliked each other on first sight and had a quarrel?"

Lestrade gave him an enquiring look. "So, Monseigneur is…?"

"The Princess Irene is going to be invited to the wedding," said the King, having recovered sufficiently to settle back down to business. "Monseigneur has skillfully evaded his responsibilities long enough. Tell me, Gregory, and spare me nothing. Who is this John Watson and what is he, really, to my brother?"

* * *

John was running through dark, silent woods. All around him, huge, gnarled, ancient conifers towered. He was lost. Lost for hours and hours in the cold, dark, alien woods, his finely honed sense of direction failing him just when he needed it most.

And he was afraid.

Because he was not alone. He was being stalked, and finally chased.

John dared not turn his head to look at the thing pursuing him as he plunged headlong down the twisting path among the trees. All he knew was that it was huge and black, closing in upon him fast. It was so close now that he could hear its snarling, panting breath behind him.

What was it? A wolf, most likely.

He knew what to do with wolves, but his knife was missing from his belt. He did not know where it had gone. He had no weapon and he had no option but to run.

But it was no use. He could feel it gaining on him.

And then John stumbled. The ground beneath him was uneven, treacherous with hidden obstacles. At the most critical point of the chase, John tripped. It was all he could do not to fall down completely, but it was enough. He was done for.

Any moment now that great, feral body will be upon him, slamming into him and bearing him down to the ground, tearing him to pieces with its razor-sharp teeth…

Yet upon the dreaded moment of impact, John felt the touch of a hand, the heavy body of a man on his back instead of the wet muzzle and the sharp, tearing bite of a wolf. He was mistaken though, if he thought the man would be any gentler.

He was hurled to the ground, the hands rough on him as they bit down on his shoulder, his nape, forcing his head for a moment into the deep, soft carpet of leaves on the forest floor. He was pinned by a body behind him, decidedly taller than he was, and heavier. John twisted his head sideways, coughing, spitting out bits of leaf and dirt as they strayed into his open, gasping mouth.

Impossibly enough, he heard laughter, dark and rich and so very familiar…

"You can't run away from me, John," growled the deep, low voice next to his ear. "You're mine, remember?"

_No_, thought John, despairingly, feeling every nerve fiber in his being come alive and catch on fire at the sound of that voice. _No, no, no…! Not _him_, please, God, no…!_

He was flipped unceremoniously onto his back, his thrashing limbs useless as he felt Monseigneur's hard, muscled legs straddling him on either side, strapping him down. The demon-man used his full weight to pin John to the ground, dark-gloved hands biting into his wrists, effortlessly keeping his hands down beside him.

"There is no escaping me," said Monseigneur. "Your captive heart is mine."

He lowered his head, and John caught the faint outline of his features not hidden by his mask, the smile on his lips, and at that split second before Monseigneur captured his mouth for a hungry kiss, John _knew._

* * *

John came fully awake to find that he had bolted to a sitting position on his divan. He clutched at his chest, feeling his heart hammering painfully away. He was covered in a light sheen of sweat.

Teeth clenched tightly, he turned and sent a fist into his pillow, imagining it briefly to be Monseigneur's face.

_Enough._

He'd had enough with the man!

Breathing harshly, John turned his head to stare balefully at the large bed behind his own, the dream still very fresh in his mind.

Monseigneur's bed was unoccupied. Again.

Had the bastard decided to relegate this luxurious room for John's exclusive use from here onwards? Good. Wonderful!

_Damn him to hell, _he thought as he got up.

It was still pretty early. Not feeling particularly hungry, John decided to skip breakfast and started for the gardens. He didn't have much time. He needed to start work on the sacks that Lestrade had brought back from the forest before the materials started to rot. He needed to work to keep his mind off the upsetting realization he had just had with his dream.

He found the bags laid out inside Mike's glass house, piled haphazardly on the work table, clustered together on the floor. It took him a while to clear the table of the bags— they were heavy. He then opened a large sack and spilled the contents onto the table surface.

He sifted carefully through the twigs and the bark, the leaves and the dirt, piling the refuse back into the sack. There was hardly anything useful to be found. John blew out a frustrated breath. This was what he had feared. Lestrade and company had gone and dug up half of the forest— the useless half.

He stared at all the other remaining bags and felt his shoulders sag. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

John was tipping over the contents of his fifth bag on the table when Mike and Billy entered the glass house.

"Oh, John, there you are," Mike said. "We missed you at breakfast."

"Yes, well…" John made a vague gesture at the bags.

"John, sir," said Billy, looking rather uneasy. "I have orders to take you to the King."

John stared at him blankly for a moment. Then he moved around the table to join Billy by the door.

"You might need to wash your hands first, sir," said Billy, and John stared down at his soiled hands, hanging forgotten at his sides.

"What is this about?" asked John after he had cleaned up and they were on their way back to the castle.

Billy merely shook his head. "I don't know, sir," he said. "Monseigneur must be informed. I must look for him after I've delivered you to the King's apartments."

Billy would say nothing more, but his unease communicated itself to John, so much so that John could feel the hairs on his nape standing on end by the time they found themselves before the doors leading to the King's apartments.

The King's private secretary, Sir Bruce Partington, was waiting for them.

"It's going to be all right," whispered Billy. "Go on."

"Just a brief bow, no need for anything fancy," instructed the private secretary to John before he opened the doors.

John walked into a hushed room, covered wall to wall in rich tapestries. Behind him, he heard the private secretary announce, "John Watson, Your Majesty."

"Gramercy, Bruce," the King said without looking up from the documents that he held in his hands. His secretary closed the doors behind John without entering himself. John's short, awkward bow went unacknowledged.

The King was seated behind a huge table, piled with official papers. Reclining in a rather graceless heap beside the table sat His Majesty's dog, Baskerville. Pink tongue lolling gently out from a slackly open mouth, Baskerville leisurely got up to make a closer inspection of John.

John steeled himself as the large dog approached him. It was just so huge, like one of those monstrous, spectral hounds that populated both Angrian and Gaaldinian legends, that John's first instinct was to flinch from it. It snuffled around John for a bit, pushing its moist muzzle at his hands to see whether there were any hidden treats there. John bared a hand for the dog to examine more fully and felt Baskerville gently licking his palm.

The King finally looked up from his papers. "Ah, John Watson," he said quite pleasantly. "I pray I have not disturbed thee by bringing thee before me this early in the morn?"

"I…" John cleared his throat. "I wasn't busy."

The King smiled mildly as he surveyed John from behind his desk. "Thou seem to have a way with dogs," he remarked. "Baskerville can be quite choosy of the company around him at times."

John said nothing, merely ran a hand lightly over the dog's shaggy head before he brought his gaze back to His Majesty.

The King's mask was different this morning— dark brown, velvety. His blue gaze was calm, bland, impossible to read. John stared back at him with a steady eye that belied the flutter of nerves he felt in the pit of his stomach. Studying the man in the pale morning light and without His Majesty's hat to obscure his head, John was surprised to note that his hair— lighter than Monseigneur's and cut much closer to his head— was already thinning.

Between the two brothers, it was clear who had gotten all the looks.

John frowned. Oh hell. Where on _earth_ did that thought come from?

"Well," said the King, finally standing up to walk towards John. "I would have asked thee to take a seat but we do not have much time. Monseigneur may already have been alerted and is probably on his way here. Sir Bruce may be able to stop him for a few seconds outside the doors but knowing my brother, he will easily overpower my secretary or find another way in. We have but five minutes at our disposal, probably less, so I will come straight to the point, John. What is thy connection to Monseigneur?"

That was truly direct. John found that he was not prepared for it.

"We…met while he was…" John licked his suddenly parched lips. "I cured him of a fever."

"Indeed. So my lord Lestrade has informed me," said the King. "Just over a week ago, was it? And now he has brought thee back to his castle, with his page's sleeping arrangements immediately allocated to thee and situated conveniently within his rooms. Advise me, am I to expect a happy announcement soon?"

"_What?"_ John could not help himself. "No, that's—"

"So thou art not sleeping in his rooms?" queried the King, eyes widening just a bit as he gazed at John.

"Well, I am, but he _made_ me—"

"I see. And pray, how else has he made thee service him since thy first… acquaintance?"

John's frown deepened as he heard the King's ugly words, uttered with the utmost civility. "There's nothing else," he finally said. Which was quite true, considering Monseigneur had not succeeded in his diabolical schemes concerning him. Yet.

The King appeared unconvinced. "Nothing?" he queried. "If so, then those looks exchanged between thee and Monseigneur at supper last night were quite a lot of nothing, yes?"

John glared at the King but wisely declined to answer.

"Pray forgive me if thou shalt find my words a little too straightforward," the King continued in a murmur. "In time thou shalt realize that I only mean the very best intentions for thee. Perchance it is best for thee to understand now. My brother has a tendency to form— how shall we call it— fast and fleeting friendships with certain gentlemen over the years. It is not natural. It is not healthy. But there we have it, and he is my own brother. So far his status and those of his occasional friends have ensured that a certain… discretion had been exercised in these friendships. So now thou must acknowledge we have a problem."

John felt his brows rise even as his lips thinned in dawning outrage. "What problem is that?" he asked, even if he knew precisely what the King meant: he was not of the class of gentlemen that Monseigneur usually pursued.

The King did not acknowledge his question, merely brought out one of his own, brutally straight to the point. "Is it money thou desire?" he asked. "It must be. I see not what else there is to tempt thee. Certainly not his personal charms. Perhaps we can be of use to one another this way."

John let out a sharp laugh. _Bloody Jesus Christ, this is unbelievable!_

"No, thank you," he found himself saying.

"But I have not yet mentioned a figure," said the King. "Thou can name thy price, in silver or gold. Or perhaps it is land thou art seeking?"

"Yes, well, I am not interested."

The King surveyed him with narrowed eyes. "Thou art very loyal, very quickly," he observed softly.

"No, I'm not…! You know, you ought to sit down and actually _talk_ to your brother before you interrogate me," snapped John.

The King angled his head as he looked at John penetratingly. "And what dost thou mean by that?"

John thought he ought to tell him. Tell this fathead the exact nature of his relationship with Monseigneur. Looking at the King and the way he was studying him, John suddenly realized how the King saw him.

_He doesn't know I was forced into everything as Sherlock's captive._

John's eyes widened as his mind raced on. Perhaps the King was the solution he was looking for, the key to his freedom. He did not approve of Monseigneur's tendencies. Once the man knew the conditions of his confinement here, how John had been forced into Monseigneur's service, there was no way the King could possibly allow it to continue. The King could force Monseigneur to set him free…

John paused, startled, as a sudden, strange pain flared inside his chest alongside the thoughts racing through his head. He frowned at himself.

_What is this?_ He thought angrily. But he already knew what it was. The dream had _shown_ him what it was.

For fuck's sake! It was absurd to feel like this. The opportunity was ripe for the taking. He was being absurd if he were not to take advantage of it now!

And yet John held off, remembering the look of warning Monseigneur had leveled at him last evening as he was introduced to this man. Perhaps there would be no harm in being a bit careful here. After all, this was Monseigneur's brother. He could trust this creature standing before him as much as he could trust Monseigneur.

The King stared at him for a second or two before his eyes fell rather deliberately on his hands. "There is something thou art not telling me," he said. "And I think it is in thy hands. Show them to me."

John drew back. "Why?" he asked warily.

"Thou hast been fingering the sleeves of thy shirt thrice in the past five minutes alone," said the King, holding out his hand. "Show me."

John hesitated, thinking of something, anything, to delay or stop this, but nothing came to mind.

The King gave him a look from under his brows and John reluctantly held his hands out. His were obviously peasant hands before they gained the calluses of a soldier: small, rough, with totally unremarkable, square-tipped fingers. To add to the overall attraction, his fingernails were rimmed with earth from his sifting activities earlier.

But His Majesty barely looked his hands over. Instead, he made for the cuffs that covered John's wrists, undoing them and lifting them out of the way. He did a double take, then stared hard at the chafed skin underneath, at the bruises encircling the wrists, healing but still clearly visible.

"Thou art a prisoner." His Majesty's voice was hushed, shocked.

"No," said John, not knowing where his answer came from. "I'm..."

What was he, really? John wasn't sure at this point.

The King looked quite ill as he gazed at him. "You…he—?"

"No!" The word was out of John's mouth before he could make sense of the situation. Aghast, he tried again, "I mean, I've not been... he has…he has his reasons—"

John shut his mouth abruptly, painfully aware that he was not making sense. What the bloody hell was he _saying?! _He had not been what? Ill-treated? Not ill-treated, when he had been trussed up in the dungeons not two nights ago? And Monseigneur_ had his reasons? _

Here was his chance to spill everything at last, to tell this man of the many peculiar treatments Monseigneur had subjected him to. This was his bloody one-in-a-million chance to escape, and he was back-pedaling and running in the opposite direction, back to Monseigneur!

John would have wanted to send a fist into his own mouth then. But before he could think to amend the words that had somehow bypassed his brain altogether and come pouring out of his mouth, the bookcase behind him swung open in a violent arc and Monseigneur charged into the room.

He was still in his nightshirt, with a robe of royal blue thrown hastily over his sleeping apparel. His hair was wild and the expression on his face even more so.

John's eyes widened in disbelief as the thought registered properly in his mind: he could see Monseigneur's face. In his obvious haste, Monseigneur had forgotten to put on his mask.

In no time at all, Monseigneur was standing behind John. He placed a hard, imperious hand on John's shoulder and pushed him towards the direction of the open bookcase.

"Out of here, John, now!" John had never heard Monseigneur sound so furious.

John turned away and fled, discovering Billy lurking in the shadows of the secret passage hidden by the revolving bookcase.

"Come, John, sir, let's be away," whispered Billy urgently as the bookcase swung shut behind them, but John stood rooted, listening urgently to the sound of Monseigneur's voice on the other side.

"_Comment oses-tu." _A snarl in Monseigneur's voice.

John could not understand a word Monseigneur was saying. He grabbed at Billy, who was trying to lead him away by his elbow. "What's he saying?" he hissed.

The King's voice, very cold: "Oh, mais bien sur que j'oses. Je suis ton frère. Après tout, l'un de nous deux se doit d'être responsable et réfléchit."

"Oh oui… Responsable pour avoir ruiné littéralement ma vie, certainement."

"John, sir, we must go—"

John fisted a hand into Billy's shirt and hauled him roughly in. "Tell me what they're saying!" he ground out.

"Es-tu devenu fou?" demanded the King.

His voice trembling, Billy began to translate: _Have you gone insane?_

"Qui ou quoi est ce John Watson? Tu ne connais rien à propos de lui, n'est-ce pas?"

_Who or what is John Watson? You don't know a thing about him, do you?_

Monseigneur's voice was clear and cold as ice: "Il m'appartient. Je l'ai choisit. C'est une raison suffisante selon moi."

_He is mine. I chose him. That is reason enough._

The King's voice rose in indignation: "Incroyable. Je n'en crois pas mes Oreilles!"

_Incredible. I can't believe I'm hearing this!_

The King's voice turned urgently pleading: "As-tu moindrement une idée à quel point tu t'es mis dans une situation dangereuse? Cet homme était principalement ton prisonnier! Tout ceci est une grave erreur-"

_Have you any idea just how dangerous a situation you've placed yourself in? The man was basically your captive! This is all a big mistake—_

Billy and John both jumped as Monseigneur shouted, _"__JOHN N'EST PAS UNE ERREUR!"_

"John…John is not a mistake." Billy's voice was an awed whisper.

John could contain himself no longer.

He pushed at the wall of the bookcase before him, reopening the secret passage into the King's study as he launched himself back into the room.

"For God's sake why don't you just tell him why I'm here?" cried John.

Monseigneur and the King turned to him, startled.

Monseigneur said in a voice tight with warning, "Not _another_ word from you, John—"

"Tell me what?" demanded the King, voice also rising.

"Why can't you just tell him?" John asked Monseigneur, bewildered.

"John, shut _up—!"_

"As thy sovereign, I demand to know what is going on here!" roared Mycroft.

John stared at Monseigneur, whose hands were on his forehead, his hair.

"He was poisoned, all right?" John finally said.

* * *

The effect of John's words was curious, as though it could turn people to stone. For a moment, nobody moved, then slowly, as though the strength had suddenly left his legs, the King sank down to sit on the edge of his desk.

"Poisoned..." It was little more than a whisper. "How...?"

Monseigneur gave out a curse as he raked his hands over his hair. "Through a wound incurred during the last jousting tournament," he finally said.

The King looked stricken. "The last one held at court?"

"The very same."

John stared as the King blanched noticeably. Monseigneur glanced at John accusingly. _Now you've done it._

"It's all right, he's still here," said John uncertainly.

The King lifted his head to stare at John. "You...cured him, then," he said slowly. "That fever..."

John nodded. "Yes."

The King whipped around to yell at Monseigneur: "When the _hell_ do you plan to tell me the entire truth?"

"Obviously when you've calmed down," drawled Monseigneur in reply. "And quite definitely it could never be written down or alluded to in our dispatches. I've instructed Lestrade not tell you as well so you need not break this over his head."

The King was shaking his head. "Poison..." he murmured in disbelief. Then, oddly: "I have nothing to do with this, Sherlock. You know that."

John frowned in puzzlement as he stared at the King who appeared genuinely shaken— enough, at least, to drop his customary manner of speech—then at Monseigneur, who closed his eyes briefly upon hearing the King's words.

"Let it be for the record," said Monseigneur, slowly, "that those words issued from your lips, not mine. I never said anything about you being involved. Not then, not now."

More silence as the King brought a shaking hand to wipe at his mouth. Monseigneur sighed and turned to John.

"What are you still doing here, John?" he said. "Go get some breakfast. You certainly look like you need it. His Majesty and I have some things to discuss privately."

It was only when John was back at Billy's side that he realized he was trembling. And not just because of the confrontation with the King.

Everything was lost.

The dream had made him realize it. At that particular moment before Monseigneur leaned down to kiss him, he had known.

He had _known._

As if he needed further proof, he asked Billy, "How long were you and Monseigneur behind that bookcase before he decided to barge in on my conversation with the King?"

Billy smiled and said, "Enough time to have heard every word of your defence of Monseigneur, sir."

John had to close his eyes. _Fuck_, he thought.

So now Monseigneur knew that John had lost to him.

His defiance, his resistance— everything was a sham. He had not known it before. It had taken the dream to make him realize it, that he would lose this fight. He had already lost it long ago. Long before the chase really took place. It took the confrontation with the King to confirm it: no matter how much he would put up a fight against Monseigneur, when the chance came for an actual escape, deep down inside him he knew he would never be able to take it and leave his tormentor behind. He would not just lose to Monseigneur, he would actually _let_ Monseigneur win over him.

"John, sir," said Billy, concerned, as John suddenly stopped walking and sagged against the wall.

"It's nothing," he managed to say after a moment, forehead still resting on the cool, rough wall of the dim passage. "I'm just a little dizzy all of a sudden. I think I will need to take in some breakfast, after all."

* * *

**More authors' notes**: The phrase "Let others wage war, we, Happy Gaaldine, marry" is lifted from a line of medieval poetry signifying the rise of the Habsburgs: "**Bella gerant alii, tu felix Austria nube! (Latin for "Let others wage war, you, Happy Austria, marry!")**, with the Empress Maria Theresa being master of the game of striking politically strategic marriages for her children, including Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. (Sources: Actilingua and Wikipedia)

Anna Thea's situation parallels the life of **Mary, Queen of Scots**. More details on her life in future chapters.

Given the shorter life expectancy of medieval people, I have adjusted our characters' ages accordingly. Here, Mycroft is 32 years old, Monseigneur is around 24 or 25, John is barely 30, and Lestrade is in his late thirties.

* * *

**Translations:**

Sherlock: _Comment oses-tu. _(How dare you.)

Mycroft: _Oh, mais bien sur que j'oses. Je suis ton frère. Après tout, l'un de nous deux se doit d'être responsable et réfléchit. _(Of course I dare. I'm your brother. Somebody ought to be the sensible, responsible one between us.)

S:_ Oh oui… Responsable pour avoir ruiné littéralement ma vie, certainement._ (Oh yes. Responsible for ruining my life, quite definitely so.)

* * *

Getoffmysheet: Yes! That was the anecdote commonly attached to Queen Victoria's famous quote, though it would sound strange coming from a lady who had such a fulfilling love life with her husband, no? ^_^

Kat: Oh yes! I've been to the website and saw the smattering of disparaging comments for John from Moriarty. LOL.


	23. Chapter 22

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 22**

* * *

Special thanks: To **Sher_locked_up** for her wonderful beta, as always!

Author's notes are at the end of the chapter.

* * *

Not long after Monseigneur had sent John away to his breakfast, he and the King sat down to their own.

Monseigneur watched the King pile food on his plate with something akin to desperate, defiant abandon and winced. Mycroft was never an easy man to read unless you saw him eating, particularly after he had just received a nasty shock. This would probably account for his preference in taking his meals privately.

"Control yourself," advised Monseigneur after a moment. "Otherwise I will be blamed for ruining your diet."

"It's still more than two months away but already I am being half-starved, Sherlock, just to fit into some of the ceremonial robes for the wedding," said Mycroft as he chewed on, unrepentant. "You have no idea of the torture that it involves. This is excellent honey, by the way."

Monseigneur nodded at the honey, served in a section of comb fresh from the hives. "It's originally from the monastery's apiary."

"You know you ought to keep a priest permanently in the household, instead of having some of the monks over from Elderidge Abbey to perform the necessary services," said the King. "Not having a single chaplain in residence at the castle is most unbecoming, not to mention the stuff of scandal—"

Monseigneur rolled his eyes. "Spare me the lecture when you already know what my response shall be," he drawled in a bored tone. "I've not changed my view since the last time we've had this discussion."

"People are talking—"

"And so they have for years. What difference does it make now?" cut in Monseigneur. "They've already considered me a lost cause and consigned my soul to the devil. Why should I disabuse them of the notion?"

The King eyed him wearily. "You enjoy your foul reputation that much, do you?" he said.

"It has its uses, as you very well know," replied Monseigneur curtly. "Although in the case of winning over your future bride, I daresay it wasn't my demonic presence along the borders that finally prompted her capitulation as I had first thought. So how did you manage it?"

The King gave him a gentle, scoffing laugh. "What made you think that?" he said as he continued eating.

"You've seen John Watson," murmured Monseigneur. "If the Angrian Queen has but a fraction of his stubbornness and courage she will not be frightened so easily into giving in just because she has heard of my arrival along the frontlines. We've long been posturing up and down the borders, and so have they. In fact the Angrians _were_ prepared to go war in the beginning. It must have been something else you did that made her change her mind at the last minute. What was it?"

"You are giving me far too much credit," said the King blandly. "I did nothing except pass along some vital information, which happened to be quite true, uncovered by one our loyal retainers at great personal cost, that one of the more ambitious noblemen advising the Queen was planning an abduction of her person once she had departed Dùn Èideann to see to her armies."

"I see," Monseigneur said in immediate and complete comprehension. "And that information conveniently carries with it the implication that the Queen's person would be taken forcibly by this ambitious nobleman, in which case she would be reduced to a pawn as the balance of power tips over and her country would embroil itself in another civil war wherein one noble house pits itself against all the others. Assuming they won the war against us first."

"Assuming that, of course," said the King agreeably. "I am glad she saw reason just in the nick of time. You will see, my dear brother, just how useful it is to have personal stakes involved in a crisis. They can galvanize an individual into decisive action like no other cause."

"What did you offer her in return?"

"My protection, of course," replied the King. "And the full preservation of her ruling powers. Given everything she has to deal with so far, she has shown herself a capable monarch. She just needs the right husband whispering the occasional advice in her ear."

Monseigneur's laughter was a soft exhalation of breath. "A masterful stroke indeed, though I must say we are not going to have an easy time with them, the Angrians," he said.

"No," said the King meditatively. "I don't think we shall. As subjects, they will be quite a handful, to be sure. So you see how it is even more a mystery that you got John Watson to serve you."

"Not by gentle persuasion, I can tell you that," remarked Monseigneur.

"Obviously not," agreed the King dryly. He eyed his brother's unmasked visage. "So he has seen your face, or you've made him see it. That's how you've managed to bind him to you. Why go farther by having him _manacled_ then, Sherlock? That seems excessive even by your standards."

A small, almost fond smile touched Monseigneur's lips as he said, "Obviously he needs time to...adjust to me. He's incredibly willful and disobedient. He still needs to be taught his proper place."

The King stared at him in astonishment for a second or two before finally muttering, "I can't believe this. I've said it once, I will say it again: how can you possibly trust a man you've basically forced into your service?"

Monseigneur looked away, his gaze distant, pensive. "Within five minutes of meeting him, I just knew that I could trust him," he said. "And after the poison started to make itself manifest, I simply didn't have a choice. At any rate, I was right about him. I _am_ right. He's not a mistake."

"Let us just hope your powers of deduction holds out, in this case," said the King, shaking his head. "Dear God! As if the wedding is not enough of a problem, now we have to track down a _poisoner_ lurking in our midst—"

Monseigneur could sense his brother's panic mounting again and moved quickly to stop it from spilling over. "You don't have to concern yourself with it," he interrupted coldly. "I hardly think you are in any danger, considering how vigilant you are with the measures you have set up about you. I will deal with the problem personally."

The King stared hard at him. "Hmm. And by that tone of voice, I take it that it would be useless attempting to pry your plans out of you. Of course you can count on my full support should you need it, but there is one other thing that we need to discuss. I am afraid you will have other concerns apart from the poisoner to deal with quite soon."

Something in the King's voice made Monseigneur turn his head to pin him with an intense gaze. From past experience, that particular tone of voice from Mycroft always meant trouble.

"Meaning?" Monseigneur prompted.

"The Princess Irene of Exina is coming to the wedding."

"Who?" asked Monseigneur, frowning, sounding as though he did not have the faintest idea what Mycroft was talking about.

"Your betrothed, Sherlock!" exclaimed the King in disbelief. "How could you have forgotten about her so completely?"

Monseigneur was instantly on guard. "What?" he said sharply. "That snub-nosed, outspoken little chit—"

"I'd hardly call her little," retorted the King. "She's almost twenty now. And if reports are to be believed, quite beautiful."

"Whatever's come of her plans to become a nun?" sneered Monseigneur.

"Obviously they have not been carried out," said the King. "Now, Sherlock I want you to _behave_ when you—"

"You can't make me go through with this," snarled Monseigneur. "Otherwise you would not have hesitated with this business all these years. You know we shall get nothing advantageous out of the marriage, unlike Angria. Quite the contrary. We will be taking on a load of unnecessary problems, and that on top of the Angrian situation that you have just embraced. What was Father thinking when he agreed to the betrothal? I can hardly believe he would give in to sentiment. You can't make me go through with this, Mycroft. You know what I am, this won't _work."_

"From my situation, you ought to have deduced the fact that we are captive to our duties, Sherlock," Mycroft replied implacably. "That is the price we pay for being born into royalty. Our responsibilities are quite removed from our personal desires. It has always been so and always will be. Grow up and get used to it."

"I've never asked to be born into our family," snapped Monseigneur. "And I already have somebody I like."

"So do I," returned Mycroft dismissively. "But that has not stopped me from fulfilling my royal obligations by marrying my first wife, and it will not be able to stop my second marriage from taking place. But you know this is all irrelevant so long as we meet our goals. Fulfill your duties first and you may get to play afterwards."

Monseigneur shook his head as he stared at his brother with an expression that was equal parts wariness and dislike. "No," he said. "No, this isn't it. This isn't all there is to it. You would not have brought this up after all these years if your aim is simply to vex me. There is something more."

"Of course there is something more," the King said, cloaking his triumph as he finally gained his brother's full attention and, very likely, his cooperation. "There is always something more, and I need you to listen to me very carefully."

* * *

The breakfast meeting dragged on for another hour or so, after which Monseigneur felt the irrational but compelling need for a long, hot bath to wash off the unsavory sensation that Mycroft's particular brand of political intrigue had left on his person as though it were something physical and palpable, like dirt.

Fuming as he sat in his bath, he debated over the morning's events and his brother's special assignment, deciding that the only thing that had pleased him (and rather unexpectedly, too) was John's response to Mycroft's carefully calculated attack. Very few could deal with Mycroft the way John had. Of course, it did not escape his notice that he was constantly finding something in John to be surprised and delighted about.

After the episode in the dungeons, he had to admit he was more than a little lost on how to approach John. He had botched it up pretty badly. Never had he felt this raw and exposed, his emotions starkly naked and rampantly obvious to enable any decent or effective cover up. Worse, he had not known what to make of John's reaction until this morning when he had been ready to barge into his brother's little inquisition and, hardly breathing as he stood behind the bookshelves, heard for himself what John had to say.

Perhaps now was the right time to talk to him.

Monseigneur dressed carefully after his bath and, with his face properly locked away behind his mask, set out for the gardens.

He found John inside the glass house, chatting away with Mike as they sorted out the contents of the sacks Lestrade had brought back from the forest. John had his back turned to him and it was Mike who saw his approach. The amicable chatter abruptly ceased as Monseigneur made a little gesture at Mike with a tilt of his head: _Away._

By the subtle change in John's bearing, as though a steel rod were suddenly being inserted up his spine in slow, painful degrees, Monseigneur could tell the man was instantly aware that he was standing just a few feet behind him. Yet John did not turn his head, not even when Mike cleared his throat apologetically and moved away.

The silence was thick and heavy as Mike left the glass house. John fell back to examining the debris before him, his movements suddenly tense, awkward. He was still not looking at him.

Monseigneur said without preamble, "I came as soon as Billy told me what was happening. My brother may be the king but I won't have him treat you in that manner."

John gave no sign of hearing him as he continued to sift mechanically through the bark and leaves before him.

"Though, of course, you didn't seem to require much help," continued Monseigneur, aware that his words seemed to be forming themselves without much conscious effort from his brain. Where they were coming from he wasn't exactly sure. "What you did...that was very good."

This time John snorted. He placed his hands, balled into fists, on top of the work table and leaned his weight into them. "We're not talking, Sherlock," he said shortly, still not looking at him.

"Aren't we?"

"No. We're not." John shook his head as though in disbelief and made as though to move away. He flinched as he suddenly felt Monseigneur's hand on the crook of his arm. He had not heard his approach from behind at all. He would have shaken his arm away but Monseigneur merely tightened his grip as he turned him around to face him.

"Your instincts were perfectly sound," said Monseigneur as he looked down at John. "You had every reason not to trust him. A word from you against me and you would have given him an excuse to take you away. Away from here and into his world and I would not be able to do anything to get you back. He would not have let you go either. It would have been like exchanging a cage for a snake pit."

John removed his arm roughly from Monseigneur's grip, jaw clenched hard as he glared at Monseigneur's visage for a moment. "I really don't see how it's any different," he ground out.

"Ah, but you do," responded Monseigneur. "Otherwise you would not have said those words to him."

"Yes, well, I didn't mean them," returned John coldly, gaze already sliding away from him. "I had to tell him _something _and they were the first that came to mind."

A lie, obviously, to judge from John's overly defensive tone and his heightened color, but Monseigneur was prepared to give John a little leeway as he desperately tried to save face. It was all so unpleasant and Monseigneur could hardly wait to get it all behind them.

"And are not our unguarded words the most significant? The most honest? What you did was... extraordinary," he murmured. "You don't understand, John, that the situation could have spiraled out of control at the very mention of the word 'poison'."

This time John stirred, gave him a half glance before looking away again.

"How?" John finally asked as Monseigneur fell silent.

"There is so much you don't know and understand about us," continued Monseigneur. "Hence my need for your absolute obedience. The King has always been very cagey about poison. He has cause to be, given his position and our family history. You are aware of the case of my poisoning at the hands of my physician when I was thirteen. There were... complications."

"What complications?" asked John, growing annoyed because, damn it to hell, here was his curiosity being stoked once again by this man as surely as a puppet-master manipulating the strings of one of his creations.

"The aftermath of the incident was perfectly hideous," said Monseigneur. "Even under torture, the physician refused to divulge just how many people were involved in his scheme. Eventually, he and he alone was executed for the crime. But somehow, word got around that it was instigated by my brother."

Beats of silence as John finally stared at Monseigneur. "But you don't believe it," he finally said.

"I don't now, but back then nobody knew what to believe. Not for a long time," answered Monseigneur. "That was partly the reason why I was sent away to live here, because we didn't know just how close the threat to my person was. Mummy— our very own mother— had to make my brother swear on a bible that he was not behind the plot. You can imagine how that affected him and our familial relations."

"Oh. Oh God," murmured John despite himself.

"So now you see," said Monseigneur. "My brother has very few weaknesses, and poison is one of them. Nothing can turn his head the way this topic can. He's terrified of the very word. We've not been able to discuss my poisoning for years without the discussion deteriorating into a shouting match. Even now, you can see how he responded to your words and I think it is only because you presented a viable solution when you cured me that I was able to turn him around. He could have just shut down and refuse to hear what you have to say. He's done it often enough before. There were moments there when I thought I really could have lost you, John."

Silence fell once again as John continued to grip the edge of the table with his hands, staring at Monseigneur who half-sat, half-leaned against the table just a few feet away from him, arms folded across his chest.

"So, I will say it again," Monseigneur said, his tone carefully neutral. "Well done."

John looked away, angry and ashamed at the mixture of feelings coursing through him at the compliment. It was impossible that he should feel this way about this man, the way Monseigneur could elicit equal amounts of rage and pleasure to run side by side inside him.

"Well, good for you that things turned out better than expected," muttered John. "This changes nothing between us, by the way."

"Indeed it doesn't," agreed Monseigneur. "The consequences attached to disobeying my orders remain intact, John, and I have yet to decide the nature of your continued punishment."

John let out a colorful curse in Angrian as he abruptly moved away from the man. Just where did this bloke get off?

"The incident with the King ought to have shown you that your obedience to my every word is vital," said Monseigneur, his tone entirely unapologetic. "Thankfully, it all turned out all right, but you cannot presume to know or understand everything that is going on around us and I will not have the luxury to explain everything to you all the time. I need you to trust me enough to obey me unconditionally, John."

"See, that's the problem right there," John pointed out as he rounded back to face Monseigneur. "You haven't earned my trust. Not one bit."

"And I probably can't. You will just have to _learn_ to trust me," said Monseigneur, his tone flat and unyielding.

John threw up his hands in exasperation. Unbelievable! There was just no way to make this man see any sense.

"That thing in the dungeons," ground out John. "What was that all about?"

"That was me telling you that you can't go wandering down there against my permission, and certainly not without my knowledge. It's dangerous," said Monseigneur. "The chambers extend deep into the Lair and there have been times in the past when people have gotten dangerously lost down there. You can ask Mike Stamford if you don't believe me."

John felt his brow rise. "Mike?" he said. "You mean—"

"Years ago, when he was new to the castle," said Monseigneur. "He went down without anyone knowing. We searched for an entire day before we found him."

"Christ." John eyed Monseigneur with misgiving. "So why all the secrecy when you could have just told me all this quite plainly?"

"Would you have obeyed me then?"

John considered. "I might have."

"Not good enough," replied Monseigneur. "I will need you to obey me almost as though it were second nature to you. You will just have to trust me when I say I have my reasons."

"That's completely ridiculous."

"Is it? We are on the trail of an assassin or assassins unknown, John. It is going to be extremely dangerous especially when we get to Glasstown for the wedding celebrations. The last thing I will need is you getting out of line and spoiling my plans just because you need to have everything explained to you beforehand. Tell me now so I may decide on whether to involve you in the chase or leave you here to tend to the gardens when the wedding takes place. Are you in or are you out?"

John exhaled a breath and shook his head. "Look, it's not as easy as that—"

"Yes, it is. In or out, John?" asked Monseigneur, eyes narrowed as he regarded him. "Remember, it could get exceedingly dangerous."

John felt his shoulders sag after a moment. "Of course I'm in," he finally said.

"We'll just have to see about that," Monseigneur said, straightening up. He nodded over the debris scattered across the table. "Have you found anything so far?"

John shook his head. "Just some mushrooms, but they're poisonous," he said.

"Perfect," said Monseigneur. "Don't throw them away. I shall have use for them. What else have you found?"

And just like that, without John being able to fully understand how it all came about, they were talking again.

* * *

Having fulfilled the purpose of his visit, the King announced that circumstances required his immediate return to Glasstown after Mass was heard the next day, Sunday, and the breakfast that would follow.

The day dawned crisp and clear as everyone filed into the chapel for Mass. Standing at the back of the small congregation, John let his attention wander as the service started. The chapel was stately and old, with beautiful stained glass windows. It definitely belonged to the older sections of the castle and was probably the most vulnerable part. Such was the design of castles that the weakest parts were made into the chapel in the hopes that, during a siege, it would be under the direct protection of God as His sanctuary.

_Well, good luck with that_, John thought. He had been through enough conflicts to know that churches were hardly exempt from pillaging men intent on looting.

John had no trouble following the service. Angria and Gaaldine shared the same religion, after all. What he found surprising were the three priests officiating. Obviously they were monks from the nearby abbey who had been specially imported for the occasion, and now that John thought about it, he had not seen a single priest in the vicinity of the castle all throughout his stay.

Perhaps it was just one of Monseigneur's quirks, he thought, staring at the man's back as he stood in the front row with the King, his entire posture hardly belonging to a penitent: head held high on his shoulders, restless hands either folded across his chest or held linked behind his back. Impatience was etched in every graceful line of his person as the service drew on. John could almost imagine him tapping an irritated foot as he listened to the Canon. The thought almost made John smile.

There were other thoughts that gradually drew John's attention as he continued to stare at Monseigneur's straight back— thoughts that distinctively had no place in a Holy Mass. He stared at that imperious back, clad in supple, dark silk, and remembered the first time he had run his hands over it; the feel of Monseigneur's fever-hot skin beneath his fingertips, the firm texture of the man's muscled contours beneath his callused palms.

John was aware that he was lapsing more and more into these dangerous daydreams, yet they did not alarm him as much as his reaction to them, or lack thereof, did. Slowly he found that he was becoming used to these thoughts suddenly flitting in as if from nowhere and he was disturbed to realize that he was gradually allowing them more and more time in his head.

Now he remembered their talk in the glass house, the feel of Monseigneur's hand on his arm— their first contact since the incident in the dungeons. John could swear that his flesh had leaped at the touch, not so much in revulsion as in recognition, as though his very flesh had missed the feel of Monseigneur's hands. And ah, the memory of his bruising lips as he kissed him.

He wondered how Sherlock would react if he ever touched him back.

Standing absolutely still and seemingly absorbed in listening to the ravishing chant-song of the monks, John closed his eyes at his treacherous thoughts and waited for the mortification to set in. It did not. That was the frightening part. He knew he was becoming addicted to Monseigneur's wicked little game yet he could not think of a way to make him stop. Something within him despaired at the thought that he was not even sure now if he wanted the man to stop.

He opened his eyes to find everyone's attention riveted at the proceedings in the altar. He had not been noticed.

He glanced at Monseigneur again and wondered briefly what he thought of God and of religion in general, and how he could possibly justify his wicked behavior as he attended Mass. It seemed a mockery of the worst kind. Or perhaps he did not feel he had to justify himself to anyone, not even God.

In which case they may have more in common than John would have initially thought.

John's gaze broke away from Monseigneur to settle on the consecrated host as it was held up by the priest. He felt nothing. His lips moved through the familiar words that shaped the prayers being chanted but no words came out.

* * *

With the Mass and the breakfast finished, the King prepared to take his leave.

"I shall expect you in town no less than two weeks before the wedding," said the King as he paused before the door of his coach. "You have your own preparations to see to."

Monseigneur exhaled an impatient sigh. "You'd best be going before the morning is out," he merely said.

"And I shall miss you too," said the King lightly. He turned in search of Baskerville, who was still making his rounds with the queue of people a few feet away, gathering his share of farewells and head pats.

"Interesting fellow, John Watson," murmured the King as he and Monseigneur watched John scratch Baskerville lightly on his head. "It would be quite something to tame a man like that."

Monseigneur made a scoffing noise. "Get your own Highlander, Mycroft. I found him first."

"He has a way about him when it comes to dogs," continued the King, eyes fixed disconcertingly on his brother's profile. "And I daresay he'll have no problem handling wolves as well."

His Majesty was already getting into the coach by the time Monseigneur turned his head to look at him. A sharp whistle, and Baskerville came bounding into the coach after his master.

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," said the King as he poked his head one last time through the window of the coach.

"You've no need to worry," replied Monseigneur. "I can handle him, Mycroft."

"Hmm. I wonder," said the King. "I'll be seeing you then, brother dear."

As always, there was a blessed feeling of relief as the royal coach drew away. Monseigneur merely shook his head at his brother's parting words, turning away as soon as the coach was on its way out of the courtyard with a procession of smaller coaches and carts trailing behind it.

"Come along, John," he called, never breaking stride as he headed back to the Lair. "We have work to do."

* * *

**Author's notes:** The Angrian Queen's plight and near-abduction is lifted from the murky relations between Mary, Queen of Scots and James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell. Near the end of her reign, she was abducted by the Earl, who then forced his person upon her. Mary's downfall can be charted when she married the cad. It did not help that he was already considered suspect number one in the murder of the queen's first husband, Lord Darnley. This association forever tainted her reputation in the eyes of her people. (Source: Wikipedia. Antonia Fraser's biography of the Queen also makes for fascinating reading of her life and times)

Exina is lifted from the imaginary worlds of the Bronte children. (Source: Wikipedia)

Details of the Medieval Mass is lifted from Introduction to Medieval Christian Liturgy (yale . edu )

John's allusion to Monseigneur's "wicked game" is inspired by some lines from Chris Isaak's song of the same title:

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_  
_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do_  
_I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you_  
_I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you_

_What a wicked game you played to make me feel this way_  
_What a wicked thing to do to let me dream of you_  
_What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way_  
_What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you_

_No I don't want to fall in love with you_


	24. Chapter 23

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 23**

* * *

**Special thanks:** To PlumpPushu for her lovely French translation and to Sher_locked_up for her wonderful beta, as always! Thanks so much, my dears.

Author's notes are at the end of the chapter.

* * *

The days passed, and John found himself gradually settling down to life at Wolf's Lair. After the King's departure, he was folded into the daily routine of Monseigneur's household as naturally and effortlessly as though he had always been a part of this small cluster of curious people.

He was kept busy. Early in the mornings, before breakfast, he was tasked to help Billy with his sword practice. He was given the assignment by Monseigneur himself, something which had delighted Billy no end. To John's wordless inquiry, Monseigneur had said in a half-bored tone, "The boy needs a proper teacher. He's not getting satisfactory training at the pell which only had him acquiring a set of bad habits when it comes to handling the hand-and-a-half."

So, for an hour or two each morning in a secluded section of the inner courtyards, John had Billy go through a rigorous session with him using the longsword. Billy's technique was far from bad, but whether it was due to Gaaldinian sword techniques or simply a pack of bad habits learned from others, Monseigneur was not exaggerating: Billy had acquired a set of fancy and unnecessary movements which drastically reduced the strength of his strikes. The first few confrontations had been brutally quick to finish as John repeatedly disarmed Billy within seconds. Billy was a fast and enthusiastic learner though, buoyed no doubt by John's implacable encouragement, and John found that disarming him was taking longer and longer as the days went by. All of this was most satisfactory.

After breakfast, John would go over to the glass house to work with Mike. Over the ensuing days, he was taught the basics of Gaaldinian apothecary and the uses of the quaint medicinal plants growing in profusion in Monseigneur's gardens. He, in turn, showed Mike the specimens of bark and mushrooms which Lestrade's men had picked from the forest and which were essential for Angrian healers. The sacks had not yielded a single White Star, but there was quite a bit of fungi, various specimens of medicinal bark and even some flowers which may be used for one ailment or the other. On more than one occasion, they had time to spare for lengthy chats.

"I didn't know you got lost in the dungeons," said John as he watched Mike prepare a powder, which was supposedly good for toothaches, for one of the maids.

Mike's face scrunched into a look of uneasy amusement. "Aye, it was not a good experience, let me tell you that," he said. "The dungeons are one dangerous maze."

"So what did you see down there?"

Mike sighed. "There's no doubt that some of the chambers had been used for torture and imprisonment by the lords of Elderidge, perhaps as recently as half a century ago. You know how a place can become unlucky when associated with certain bad events. I mean, people had _died_ down there, scores of them over who knows how long. Then the activities those dungeons witnessed trickled and finally stopped as the last of the Elderidge lords died out. The castle had not been in use for a number of years when it finally came into the possession of the Crown. Then Monseigneur moved in more than ten years ago. Of course, clearing all the dungeons would have been well-nigh impossible, so only a portion— the usable portion— got cleared for his wine cellars and his workspace as well as a huge storage space for all sorts of things."

John raised an eyebrow at Mike's words but said nothing.

"I don't know how he does it," said Mike, shaking his head, "being able to work alone down there all night and not get the willies. Back when I got lost, I could almost feel something or some things dogging my every step as I got deeper and deeper into the maze of chambers. I thought I was not going to come out there alive."

"Did you shout, yell for help?"

"I did more than that, mate," remarked Mike darkly. "I screamed myself hoarse and nobody heard me for hours and hours."

John pursed his lips, wondering if Mike's screams were what really gave rise to the rumors that he had heard from Sally. "Did you, uh, see anything? Prisoners, that sort of thing?" he asked, trying for a tone of nonchalance.

Mike laughed. "I see you've heard the rumors," he said. "No. Nothing like that. But there are things down there that could raise one's hairs. Racks and torture instruments, all rusty with disuse. One could almost imagine the mold and mildew on the walls in some parts to be bloodstains. Then again, I guess one would almost expect stories like this to become attached to Monseigneur's person, eh? His reputation precedes him."

John fought a shiver as he remembered the ancient, wooden tables in Monseigneur's chamber— how the wood had suspicious dark stains on them, and those rusty chains trailing down to the ground. These could only mean one thing, obviously. What sort of man would ever think to convert torture tables into his workbenches?!

"Well, how do you view him then?" asked John. "You've worked for him some years."

Mike smiled. "Well, he's certainly not an easy man to work for, and I won't say that I'll ever understand what he's about most of the time. I don't think anyone can claim that, not even Lady Hudson. He's got a mind that streaks by as fast and fiery as a comet," he said. "He is tough and demanding most times, but he's fair in his own way. Not to mention generous in his rewards and wages."

John gave a small, wry smile and said nothing. All the while he could not get rid of the memory of having been manacled to the wall by Monseigneur, and he sure as hell would not be able to forget the events that had followed. It had lasted no more than ten minutes, but it was enough. It was more than enough to sear that burning memory of the man into John's mind forever.

"Was he angry when he finally found you?" John asked, not knowing why he wanted to know.

Mike snorted. "Nearly apoplectic with rage, more like," he replied. "Monseigneur told me the next time I get myself down there without his knowledge or permission, he was going to let me take my chances. Needless to say, I've not been down there without anyone knowing ever since."

They were silent for a few moments as Mike finished mixing his powder.

"You know there is a story about the dungeons, how some rooms in the chambers have walls six feet thick," Mike finally continued, his voice soft, thoughtful. "They said there was once a prominent clan who lost out on some forgotten war hundreds of years ago who took refuge in this castle. The lord of the castle then did not know what to do with them. They still had enough political clout so that he could not just send them away, yet he could not afford to be seen sheltering them without risking fierce retribution from the victors."

"So what did he do?" asked John curiously.

"He had them taken down to the dungeons and shut them into one of those rooms," said Mike. "Someplace out of sight and out of mind, where their cries for help would not pass the thick walls. Those who knew of their existence were loyal to their lord first and kept their mouths shut. God only knows just how long those wretched souls had to endure thirst and starvation. Their mummified corpses were found centuries later, shreds of clothes still clinging to them. Apparently, some of them had died still _gnawing at their own flesh."_

John stared at Mike for a moment. "No," he finally said.

Mike shrugged. "That's how the story went," he said. "I didn't invent it."

* * *

After an entire morning spent with Mike in the gardens, John was treated to the company of the ladies in the afternoon as part of an effort to infuse a sense of Gaaldinian culture into him. There was Lady Hudson, if she could spare the time, but more often, John found himself in the company of the Lady Mary.

Of everyone in the castle, this young lady's position in Monseigneur's household was perhaps the most enigmatic of all to John, until he found out that she was the daughter of Monseigneur's tutor, now deceased.

Nevertheless, it was strange even for a man of Monseigneur's stature to acquire a female ward who was not his relative in this manner. His reputation notwithstanding, the fact that Monseigneur was not married ought to make the subject even more delicate. Thinking that perhaps it would be rude to ask the lady in question personally, John had made unobtrusive inquiries from Lady Hudson.

It was true that the Lady Mary's circumstances were highly unusual, Lady Hudson had replied, but the girl's father was the last of her kin and there was really nothing untoward about Monseigneur taking her in, as he had assigned her, Lady Hudson, to take responsibility as a sort of surrogate mother to the Lady Mary. It was an act of charity that John could hardly believe Monseigneur to be capable of, and yet there it was. What was even more remarkable was that Monseigneur actually went further by having the Lady Mary educated enough to be able to read and write: she always carried a book with her wherever she went and she had once even read aloud to John a chapter of a Gondalian fairy story, complete with translations.

Mary's mother had died not long after she had been born, Lady Hudson had continued, and her father had been her entire world. Before he died, the old man had secured a promise from his royal pupil to look after his little girl, who had been no more than ten years old at the time. She was now only sixteen, a sweet, proper young lady who could effortlessly wrap anyone around her little finger without her even being aware of her considerable powers. John had seen her at it with Billy, who could be reduced to a red-faced, blubbering heap of awkward youth whenever she favored him with a few words.

The only one who seemed immune to her charms was Monseigneur, who could, in his turn, reduce the girl to gauche, blushing incoherence with one flick of his pale, cold gaze. And John noticed that this was not a common occurrence either. Most times, Monseigneur acted as though Mary was not even there before him. As bad as this was, it was even worse during those infrequent times that he _did_ take notice of her, as it invariably involved his making candid, unkind comments on her person or activities, calling her "Mary the Younger", as if she needed any reminder of her junior position in his household. John would watch in silent indignation as Mary shriveled in embarrassment or turn pale and silent before fleeing from Monseigneur's offhand remarks.

"You can't possibly be this thick. You know she obviously adores you, don't you?" John pointed out to Monseigneur one time when he could no longer bear the man's boorishness. "She'd do anything for you if you'd only ask. Why be so unkind to her for no particular reason whatsoever?"

"Precisely because her apparent adoration stifles me," Monseigneur had replied coldly. "I'll ask for gushing adulation when I need it, thank you very much."

His brusque answer had struck John momentarily silent, because just then he found himself wondering if that was what Monseigneur had been doing to him— wordlessly asking (or perhaps _demanding _might be a better word) for some part of his affections by subjecting him to all these questionable physical gestures which had something deeply emotional at their heart.

If so, then it was utterly demented and definitely not something that could be couched into words. John wisely did not attempt it. God only knew what it could unleash.

Monseigneur had continued to stare at John, sizing his reaction up. "I don't require people to like me, John," he said, his voice flat.

"Well, thank God for that, as I hardly think it could ever be an easy task," John had muttered before turning on his heel and walking away, not bothering to register Monseigneur's reaction.

Of course, once John had cooled down he realized the futility of his argument; nevertheless, John translated his resentment of Monseigneur's treatment of the Lady Mary by being especially attentive to her.

At the start of their acquaintance, proper manners had kept the Lady Mary a bit distant and it took a while before she allowed herself to settle down around John's person. Once she grew comfortable in his presence, though, she was irrepressible. John could well remember her highly original approach.

"As a means for us to get to know each other better," she had announced early into their acquaintance, "I want you to tell me an Angrian ghost story, John Watson."

"Ghost story?" John had repeated, not sure he had heard right.

"The scarier the better," the Lady Mary had urged.

Scratching his head and thinking, John had finally come up with the Bean Nighe— a spirit whose story was familiar enough with Angrian knights and soldiers.

She was, according to John, an Angrian fairy who nobody wanted to meet, because she carried with her the news of certain death. She may or may not be old and ugly with webbed feet, but she would definitely be found alongside lonely streams and fords, singing or wailing a lament as she washed the bloodstained shrouds and armor of people who were about to die.

Once, a wealthy and powerful Earl came across her on the eve of battle as he took an evening stroll alongside the stream near his castle. He knew the moment he saw her that he would not survive the fight the next day. Nevertheless, he could not bring himself to walk on by without actually asking the question. He had never been a humble man, but now he very meekly asked whether his clothes were in the pile she was washing. She said yes. Undeterred by the terrible news, he went on to ask if his men might, at least, emerge victorious in combat.

She said, "If your lady wife will serve you cheese for breakfast tomorrow without your asking for it, your armies shall be victorious."

And so it was with considerable anxiety that the Earl waited for his final breakfast at dawn the next day. His wife served almost everything imaginable to her departing husband, but no cheese was to be found on the table. Discouraged and distraught, he led his army into a smashing defeat at the hands of their enemies. Before the day was out, the Earl met his death when his head was taken clean off his shoulders by an enemy swordsman. The legend concluded with the ghost of the headless Earl serving as another messenger of death to his own family, appearing still in full armor and on horseback minus his head to gallop across a stretch of moor or grassland before disappearing into the evening mists days before one of his own descendents would die.

John had smiled at the Lady Mary's wide-eyed countenance and asked, "Is that scary enough?"

"Yes," she had said in a small voice.

"You know, I should ask you for a Gaaldinian ghost story in return," John had said.

The Lady Mary had thought for a moment, then said, "There was once a wicked queen who was rumored to have murdered her husband. While she lived, they could not prove that she was the murderess, but upon death, she was denied entry to heaven and her spirit was condemned to roam the turrets of her now-ruined castle, weeping, screaming, holding her husband's still-beating and bleeding heart in her hands."

John had waited a good while before he realized that she was done with her story. "What? That's it?" he had asked.

"That's it," she had said simply. "It carries the important lesson that there's no rest for the wicked."

"So she's just there, haunting her own castle clutching her husband's heart in her hands?" John had asked, not knowing what to make of such a specter. She did not seem especially malevolent. "Could she at least strike people dead when they look upon her, or something like that?"

"Well, I can imagine I'd drop dead with fright if I were to see such an apparition appear before me," the Lady Mary had said, nodding solemnly.

John had shaken his head. "I doubt that," he had said.

He had also meant it. This girl could withstand Monseigneur's many verbal slings and arrows, enduring much in white silence. John hardly doubted she would drop dead at the mere sight of an apparition when she could hold out against an actual demon.

With his ghost story cementing their new friendship, she had asked, "What would you like me to help you with then, John?"

"I want you to teach me some Gondalian," John had said without hesitation.

* * *

They were at their informal Gondalian lessons one afternoon when somebody came looking for Mary.

"Seriously, you shouldn't be so self-conscious," the Lady Mary chided him. "You sound just fine. Now, repeat after me: _Mon nom est John Watson et je viens d'Angria__."_

Of course, John thought she was being perfectly lovely and encouraging, but the truth was that he sounded awful— very much like Azrail hawking up small bones and other undigested parts of her meal— whenever he had to force those elegant syllables through his nose or undulate them at the back of his throat.

"I'll try next time. Just keep talking to me," hedged John.

Just then they heard Mary Turner calling down the corridor, "Mary, is that you?"

"I'm here, Madam," answered the Lady Mary.

Mary Turner rounded the corner and saw them sitting on the alcove. "Oh, not ye, love," she said. "I'm looking for the other Mary— Lady Hudson. I'll be needing to sit down with my lady to discuss the menu for the coming days. So how are ye getting on then, John Watson?"

"I'm getting on fine, thanks," said John, smiling.

"She's probably in the Great Hall," the Lady Mary instructed.

John shook his head as they watched Mary Turner's broad back disappearing as she trotted off and said, "Just how many of you are named Mary, anyway?"

"There are six of us," said the Lady Mary with a small sigh. "Lady Hudson, Mary Turner, myself, two chamber maids and one little scullery maid. This happens nearly everyday— somebody calling for one Mary or the other and getting the wrong one. I don't even know why I'd bother responding as nobody ever asks for me, really. I don't count."

John stared at the Lady Mary as she said it, noting her gentle, matter-of-fact tone which held no trace of self-pity. That was when he decided she ought to have a nickname.

"Well, that's a shame, really," he said. "I don't think people ought to get confused over your name and your person, Molly. They shouldn't."

When the Lady Mary tilted her head to give him a look from bright, robin's eyes, he clarified, "Molly. That's what we call our Marys in Angria. Unless, of course, if you don't like it—"

"Oh, no!" she said quickly. "I like it. Very much."

She gave him a pleased, impish smile.

* * *

So that was how John spent his days. His nights were a different thing altogether.

After supper was over (they had supper early, around dusk), his company belonged solely to Monseigneur.

The man's schedule was extremely erratic. He was basically a nocturnal creature, working in the dungeons (which were still off-limits to John) or in the library at all hours of the night. Most days, John would not catch a glimpse of him until well after dinner, and even then, Monseigneur had other matters to attend to— the nasty practicalities of daily life as lord of the castle and Prince of Gaaldine— and he would leave John to have his lessons with Molly in peace.

After supper though, John was expected to attend to him and him alone.

After they had made their peace (if John could call it that), Monseigneur was once again very much into John's activities. He would tolerate no awkwardness that might linger between them, brushing aside any ill feelings that John might harbor by turning him to work. He launched John into all sorts of chores: giving him a pile of books to read; making him sit for hours on end, discussing the poison antidote with him or just bending his ear to Monseigneur's many monologues on the subject. Then there were times when John was required to do nothing at all as Monseigneur slipped away into what he called his mind palace. Sometimes this would take up the entire night and John would find himself waking up from a doze in one of the library's comfortable divan chairs to find that Monseigneur had not budged an inch from his own chair nearby.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, John could feel a gradual thawing of relations taking place as he and Monseigneur slowly adjusted to each other's continued presence.

Monseigneur had moved back into his rooms the very evening when they were on speaking terms again, and John could not help but laugh at his unorthodox arrangement of keeping away.

"You know, I'm the one who should have been booted out of your rooms, not the other way around," he had observed dryly as Monseigneur prepared for bed that night.

"What? And provide you with the excuse to stay away, perhaps indefinitely, from here?" Monseigneur had replied. "I think not, John. I'd have to think of something especially creative to drag you back."

It had taken a moment for John to realize that he had been gaping at Monseigneur and he had quickly looked away, aware of the uncomfortable flush suffusing his face. It had been an odd thing to say, but John ought to have gotten used to expecting the unexpected from Monseigneur by then.

* * *

Those were the regular nights. There were other nights when Monseigneur had other ideas on how to make use of John's company.

John knew it would only be a matter of time before Monseigneur made true his promise of carrying out John's continued punishment. Sooner or later, he knew the man was going to pounce.

"You can't possibly think I'll give in without a fight," John said flatly on one such night upon hearing the man's request. They stood rooted on opposite sides, regarding each other warily from across Monseigneur's vast bed with the covers all turned down and ready for occupancy.

Hands on his hips, Monseigneur replied, "We all know how this is going to end, so why even bother fighting?"

"Because you can't expect me to just meekly climb into your bed, that's why!" railed John.

"Of course not," said Monseigneur with maddening calm. "But, as always, you miss the point, John."

When John fell silent, he continued, "You are being punished, therefore, you are in no position to dictate in what form your punishment shall or shall not take. But then again, I doubt if you've imagined your punishment to be anything otherwise."

There was a dip in Monseigneur's voice at the last words, accompanied by a tilt of his head towards the bed as if in invitation.

John still said nothing as he glared at Monseigneur. The sheer arrogance of the man was breathtaking, but no, he could not say he was surprised by his demand. And damn his bloody heart from beating so fast at the thought. Damn that strange, heady mixture of unease and attraction stirring to life low in his gut.

Monseigneur leveled him a cool, hard gaze from behind his mask. "Don't make me do anything tiresome like chase you around the room, John," he warned.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to give me a reason for sharing your bed," John remarked, stalling the inevitable.

"You're wasting time, but all right. I'll give you two reasons, if you like," said Monseigneur. "One, consider this a part of the obedience training I've promised you. And two, you've been wanting to feel my furs again around you for quite some time now— _don't_ even bother denying it! Don't think I've not noticed how you've eyed this bed covetously. I'm simply giving you permission to indulge. So what's it to be, John? You can either come quietly or I'll have to resort to picking you up bodily and carrying you over here."

"I'd like to see you try," said John with gritted teeth.

Almost before he realized it, they had gradually begun to move around the bed— Monseigneur advancing and John retreating to the other side. But John was at the wrong side of the four-poster: the doors of the sleeping chambers lay behind Monseigneur while John only had the windows at his side. Soon Monseigneur would reach his end and he would be trapped into deciding on whether to jump out the windows in his bid to get away or scurry across the bed to reach the doors on the other side.

There was no real option, actually. He was cornered long before they had begun.

Sensing John's dilemma, Monseigneur suddenly quickened his stride, lunging at him as he turned John's corner.

_Fuck! _

John dived onto the bed, aware of just how badly this would end. Instantly he was on his hands and knees, scurrying to cover the width of the bed in record time. He almost made it, too, but then he felt hard fingers biting down over his ankles, heedless of his thrashing kicks as they dragged him back over the luxuriant furs. John tried to flip around to enable him to make full use of his hands to punch and grab and shove, but he felt Monseigneur's weight settling relentlessly on his back, wrestling him roughly down on his stomach and immobilizing his thrashing legs with his own.

"The perfect position," purred Monseigneur. "It's exactly how I want you this first time around. Thank you, John."

"Come on, stop it," John heard himself say, disbelief and exasperation in his tone as he jabbed a hard elbow up and against the man's chest behind him. "Why are you doing this?"

"I thought I've made myself clear," said Monseigneur, his voice gone all guttural as he effortlessly folded John's offending elbow against his back. "Yours is not to reason why. Ever."

"_Wait,"_ gasped John, trying to gain leverage where no leverage could be found.

"I'd advise you not to make me wait for anything," Monseigneur said, leaning in to whisper the words in John's ear. "Patience is not one of my strengths."

Of course, John could struggle against him with everything he had. Hell, he might even be able to overpower this git. He could make things more than a little difficult, more than a little inconvenient for Monseigneur, but the man was ahead of him as always.

"Remember what I said about disobeying me, John," Monseigneur growled in warning. "I meant what I said about leaving you chained in the dungeons and nobody can ever interfere. Feel free to choose between a warm bed or the cold dungeons for your punishment."

"If you can haul me all the way down there," challenged John.

"There are ways," Monseigneur assured him coldly. John grunted as the man ground his full, hard weight into him from behind.

"Now we come to your penance, John," said Monseigneur, mouth barely an inch from John's ear. "I'll leave you to make it easy or make it difficult on yourself. It's all up to you. You are not to move an inch from your position, and you are not to talk. You will do nothing but take whatever I decide to give you. Is that clear?"

Even before John could attempt any sign of acknowledgement, he felt Monseigneur's hand move from his imprisoned wrist to tangle in his hair. John held his breath, feeling his heart might just explode in his chest from the pace it was setting.

Long minutes passed, yet Monseigneur did nothing but touch John, feeling the texture of his short, golden hair, trailing those long fingers down his nape to linger on the tense muscles of his back. Barely breathing, John felt those teasing fingertips lift when they reached the end of his nape, to be replaced by the flat palm of Monseigneur's hand as it glided and stroked systematically across the plains of John's clothed back. The feel of that hand through his nightshift was strange— not really sensual but thoughtful and curious, almost clinical. The touch was initially hard and relentless, but John felt the change in the restraining hand gripping his trapped arm behind his back as it gradually eased its hold over him.

_Why?_ Not for the first time, John found himself thinking the question in pained confusion.

And as though he could read minds, Monseigneur said, "I wish to know you, John. All of you, inside and out, so much so that you will never be able to hide anything from me. I'll be able to find you wherever you may be, in whatever guise you may think to assume."

A sudden movement from Monseigneur, and John felt him sit up to straddle him from behind. For a moment, John could not rid himself of the image of an incubus— a night demon straddling its dreaming prey. Would he tear his heart out to hold in his hands? And all the while, Monseigneur's hands continued their ministrations as they roamed over John's rigid arms, cataloguing and storing away the many textures that comprised John's skin and the feel of the firm muscles and tendons that lay underneath.

This would have been a good time to break away, but John seemed paralyzed as though he were indeed in a dream, unable to move under Monseigneur's almost hypnotic touch. Little by little, John could feel himself relaxing into Monseigneur's spell despite his wishes. He felt his much-abused nightshift being gradually eased away from his back and from his arms. The air in the sleeping chamber was cool against his heated skin and he could barely contain the soft gasp that formed on his lips as he felt those long, tapered hands touch his naked flesh at last.

Monseigneur's hands were also callused, but his calluses felt different from John's. His hands were also better tended, the skin softer from regular applications of perfumed oils and myrrh. John gritted his teeth to keep a startled moan in as Monseigneur suddenly leaned down to trail his lips along John's nape.

The touch of his mouth was maddeningly light, almost not there. It touched John's nape in the briefest of caresses before tracing a line down the first few notches of his spine. And then it was gone, filling John with intense disappointment and anticipation as to where it might land next.

He shook out a startled breath as he felt Monseigneur move to touch the line of faint, almost-gone bruises on one wrist with his lips.

_He's owning them, owning what he did to me in the dungeons_, a part of John's mind thought hazily, recalling Monseigneur's treatment of his bruises incurred by Lestrade's fists. _This is the closest he'll ever come to saying he's sorry for inflicting them._

Monseigneur's chaste kisses on John's bruised skin were infinitely gentle, tender beyond belief. John felt his heart do a strange, painful twist deep inside his chest and he could not explain the moisture slowly gathering in his eyes.

He kept his head to one side as he continued to lie on his stomach. From his limited viewpoint, John could see Monseigneur's unruly dark hair obscuring his face as he kissed his wrist; he was near enough for John to feel the slight tickle of a few, loose strands of those midnight curls against his face. For the first time, John registered Monseigneur's scent— like a forest after the rains, fragrantly earthy and intoxicating.

At last, the kisses ended, and John watched as Monseigneur lifted his head away, followed moments later by his body shifting to partially free John's trapped body underneath his. The movement finally broke John's stupor. He suddenly turned, and kept turning even as he felt Monseigneur's grip tighten around him.

"John," said Monseigneur in warning.

But John was not listening. He was heedless of Monseigneur's restraining hands as he finished turning over to lie fully on his back, gazing up at the man as Monseigneur leaned over him.

Monseigneur, his tone disapproving: "John, I thought I _said—"_

His words abruptly trailed off as John placed a hand on his mouth.

John watched the flare of surprise lighting those pale eyes. _I don't know what I'm doing_, he thought distinctly as he felt the first brush of panic deep inside him. _I don't even know if this is really what I want, but what I _do_ know is that I need you to shut up for a bit just this once and let me think._

The conflict warring inside John was palpable in his hand, in every line of his body. The hand on Monseigneur's mouth was not exactly hard, but it was unyielding, full of uncertainty as to its intentions. Did John wish to push him away or urge him closer?

Monseigneur watched John's emotions play across his face for a moment, disapproval of this man's stubborn disobedience melting away into reluctant fascination as he gazed at John's expressive face.

John felt Monseigneur's lips move against his palm as he whispered one word, a promise: "Soon."

John continued to stare at Monseigneur, his heart still in his throat and desire raging hot and hard in his loins as he recognized this to be the most dangerous incarnation that Monseigneur could ever assume: when he would choose to cast aside his demonic mantle for a few minutes, just long enough for John to catch a glimpse of the man underneath.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Pell training, which makes use of a wooden post planted firmly on the ground for sword practice, was essential during the Medieval Ages. It allowed knights to practice various vicious strokes and manoeuvres such as thrusting, cutting, and slicing without imposing an injury on his opponent. The longsword is also known as the hand-and-a-half sword. (Source: Medieval Life and Times)

The Scottish **Bean Nighe**, or **washerwoman of the ford**, is a cousin of the more well-known **Banshee** (Bean sith) of Irish folklore and legend. Like all magical creatures, certain ways must be observed when approaching this entity to minimize offense: If one can get between the washerwoman and the water, three questions may be answered by the Bean Nighe, but only after three questions have been answered by the mortal first. A mortal who is bold enough to sneak up to her while she is washing and suck her breast can claim to be her foster child. The mortal can then gain a wish from her. If a mortal passing by asks politely, she will tell the names of the chosen that are going to die. While generally appearing as a hag, she can also manifest as a beautiful young woman when it suits her, much as does her Irish counterpart. John's account of her here, along with Mike's story about the clan members shut into one of the dungeon rooms in the Lair, are lifted from Wikipedia, Mysteries of the Afterlife (Aldus Books) and Uncovering Scotland. There will be more about the Bean Nighe in future chapters.

The apparition in Molly's ghost story is said to be the ghost of **Isabella**, She-Wolf of France and Queen of England, who was rumored to have murdered her husband, Edward II. (Source: Wikipedia, and the queen's biography by Alison Weir).

During the early to mid-Medieval Ages, women's education was largely frowned upon. Some high-born ladies were taught to read and write, but they were the fortunate few. In the 13th century, according to Philip of Navarre, women in general "should not learn to read and write unless they are going to be nuns, as much harm has come from such knowledge. For men will dare to send letters near them in the form of indecent requests…and the Devil can soon lead her on to read the letters or"— even worse— "answer them." (from Isabella, by Alison Weir)

* * *

**Translation:**

_Mon nom est John Watson et je viens d'Angria: _My name is John Watson and I am from Angria.

* * *

Kat: Yes! Series 4 and quite possibly 5! Also, "The Empty Hearse" for the first ep of series 3! Ah, the loveliness!

Time: LOL, the song messed with my mind as well. It still does.


	25. Chapter 24

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 24**

* * *

**Special thanks**: To Sher_locked_up, for her patience with my drafts and her wonderful beta, as always.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

For what seemed like endless minutes, Monseigneur continued to gaze down at John in wonder. John's gradual adjustment to his person had taken time— so much time it seemed to Monseigneur, who was not used to waiting for anything. Yet here, at last, was some proof that his sorely tested patience was finally bearing fruit.

Here he was, with John exactly where he wanted him: pinned underneath him from the hips down and not struggling violently, for once. Yet there was a vestige of opposition: John's hand was on Monseigneur's mouth— strong, blunt fingers pressed against his slightly parted lips. Monseigneur could sense John's resolve slowly weakening, but there was still enough of it to keep him at bay. For now.

_Wait,_ John's hand on his mouth seemed to say.

It was the last thing Monseigneur wanted to do right now, not when he'd finally had John spread out beneath him, unresisting and more pliant than he had ever been. Through his questing hands, Monseigneur had finally known the various textures of John's skin and the muscled planes of his firm, compact body: a fascinating range of smooth to rough and soft to hard, incredibly warm and alive.

And aroused.

In the midst of their earlier, rough horseplay, John's nightshift had come undone and was twisted around his body somewhere around his lower torso. Monseigneur could feel the frantic thrumming of the man's heart as he rested a hand at the center of John's naked chest. Farther down, tantalizingly hidden from view but lying thick and hard against Monseigneur's muscled thigh was the heady evidence of John's need that echoed Monseigneur's very own. So John had not been unaffected by his little game, after all. John wanted him too.

It was all Monseigneur could do not to throw caution to the winds and just take this man here and now— this stubborn, mistrusting, utterly captivating man who was so different from anyone he'd ever known: his greatest temptation. God only knew when he'd have another chance like this. It was all he could do not to lap at John's fingertips with his tongue and suck them into his mouth. It was all he could do not to lean down and take John's mouth savagely with his the way he had done in the dungeons and grind his aching arousal against his.

He'd told John he wanted him willing. He may not be entirely willing now but perhaps Monseigneur could dissuade him from his reluctance a few minutes down the line- as soon as he could kiss that ironclad resolve away.

But John's hand on his mouth was unyielding, a little tense, willing him to remain still. John's touch was uncertain but more than ready to harden into full-fledged resistance should Monseingeur make one false move, and John's eyes staring steadfastly into Monseigneur's seemed to belie his body's needs with the shadows of perennial sadness that lurked in their depths.

Monseigneur could certainly boast that he had a talent for reading people; indeed, John was practically an open book, as far as he was concerned. He had paid rapt attention to the unspoken nuances of John's thoughts in his body language and his eyes. Initially, his advances had elicited traces of revulsion, the unease that accompanied John's adjustment to a strange and unfamiliar situation. Monseigneur was pleased to see these feelings had gradually shifted, to be replaced by reluctant desire.

Yet the pain and anguish in John's eyes remained undiminished— wordless testaments to a burden of memories. Staring into John's blue gaze, Monseigneur could see it: that old, nameless grief he had glimpsed once before that mired John's soul and turned him from a healer to a soldier. There were ghosts in John's past that were very much alive in his heart and his mind, stealing the smile from John's face before it could linger too long and presenting themselves as a shield for John to use against Monseigneur's advances. So long as they were there, festering inside his heart like a wound that refused to heal properly, John would never be free. Monseigneur would never be able to claim him fully for his own.

Just like everything else about John, Monseigneur would have to know his sorrows. Instinctively, he knew it would be a mistake to force himself on John now without addressing his inner demons. He'd have to know each of them, by name if necessary, in order to banish and destroy them. It would take time. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Curbing his impatience was never something Monseigneur was good at, and right now it required near-heroic efforts to rein himself in. Yet somehow, he managed it. With as much grace as he could muster, he took John's restraining hand in his and turned his head slightly to kiss its palm, murmuring once again the promise he had made: "Soon, John."

* * *

John left soon after they had settled down. An impossible task, this: lying side by side with their backs to one another in the claustrophobic confines of the closed, curtained bed, not speaking and not quite touching, their bodies still racing and sleep the farthest thing from their minds. After a while it became intolerable, and whether or not he thought Monseigneur was asleep beside him, John quietly got up and departed for his divan. Monseigneur could feel John easing away from him ever so carefully and he did nothing to stop him. Instead, he was stunned to feel an unfamiliar, deep-seated pain starting deep inside his chest, like blood blossoming gradually on white linen— the spreading petals of a red, red flower— immediately after a knife's clean and fatal stroke.

There would be no sleep for him tonight as he examined in his restless mind the phantoms of grief he had glimpsed in John's eyes. He was beginning to sense that he had a problem in his hands— a huge one. Data. He needed more data before he could go on, before he allowed himself to be engulfed by suspicions— dark and insidious— already forming inside his head.

Dawn was encroaching upon his windows when he finally drifted off for a short nap, interrupted all too soon by Billy. He could not laze around in bed: Lestrade would be leaving for the garrison again soon and Monseigneur could no longer put off the reception of his endorsements on various matters that required his attention.

As he got up to dress, Monseigneur could sense a foul mood coming on.

* * *

Lestrade had stayed on after the King's visit, taking care of his responsibilities on Monseigneur's behalf at the Lair which he had allocated to various trusted retainers while he took on the full business of leading a garrison for the past few months.

Everything had been in order while they were away. Having dealt with his lord's many concerns quickly and efficiently, Lestrade could now go back to overseeing the final stages of stripping down the garrison and converting it into an outpost to be manned by a skeleton crew of soldiers in the north. Then he would be free of his obligations for a few weeks to go back to his wife and daughters for some much-needed rest before resuming his duties in Monseigneur's household.

Monseigneur was barely listening to him as he droned on with report after report of everything from the state of the knights and soldiers in his retinue, his horses, his equipment, and the various expenditures which had been incurred in housing and feeding his army to the ceremonial procedures which his men must be made familiar with at the royal wedding. All Monseigneur was conscious of was the lightness in the deep timber of Lestrade's voice that spoke of relief that the worst of the work was over and the anticipation that he would be seeing his family again soon.

And all the while, Monseigneur stared out the window of his study at the three distant figures below, standing in the courtyard: Donovan, Anderson and John, conferring in a huddle as Donovan showed John how to man her boomerang. It was, by all standards, a most astonishing turn of events. What special powers did John possess to be able to befriend the insufferably haughty Donovan and the doofus Anderson?

_But that's what normal people do, don't they? They meet people and make friends with them, and it will only be a matter of time before someone special comes along for them to fall in love and start a family with. _

Boring.

The entire notion was boring— so hopelessly common and boring and not worth his time because it had nothing to do with him. Until now. And all because it concerned John. Quite suddenly— practically overnight— he found himself saddled with a problem he had no idea how to deal with. It was a piece of the puzzle that was John Watson that he did not know where to fit in his own scheme of things.

That strange, unhappy twist deep inside his chest again— an alien feeling of almost-pain that had somehow taken root within him in the small hours of last night and had grown at a monstrous pace ever since. It was appalling that he should feel something as vile as this.

It took a moment for him to realize that Lestrade was finished with his reports and was awaiting further orders. There were several, which he had Dimmock, his private secretary, put down on parchment days before, and this he handed silently to Lestrade. Just when Lestrade was preparing to take his leave, he asked, "Was it worth it, going into exile with me?"

Lestrade had been in a pickle the entire morning. He had found Monseigneur in one of his moods, which had always meant trouble before. Already unpredictable at the best of times, Monseigneur could make Lestrade feel like he'd taken a special trip to hell when he was in one of his moods. So Lestrade had braced himself for every possible unpleasantness— mulish disagreements and the undermining of his decisions in just about anything, or perhaps one of Monseigneur's sudden flare-ups over the smallest matters that he had not foreseen as an inconvenience to him. Certainly, Lestrade was prepared for all of these things and more, but he had never expected Monseingeur's question.

So now he blinked and said, "Sir?"

Monseigneur tore his gaze from the window long enough to give him an oblique glance. "Back when I was seventeen and my brother sent you here, you'd begged him to take you back after a week with me," he said in a tone that challenged Lestrade to contradict him.

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably on his booted feet. "Well. Yes," he admitted. Quickly, he added, "But that was then. And this isn't exile."

Monseigneur almost smiled at Lestrade's tact, but the fact was, this wasn't just exile for Lestrade; it was practically a demotion. And Monseigneur had made it even more complicated by doing his aggressive best to drive Lestrade away that first, awful week because he had deduced quite rightly that his brother had sent Lestrade over to serve and spy on him at the same time. He had ultimately gained Lestrade's respect and loyalty, but that had come much later and after certain agreements of non-interference had been struck with his brother.

"You never harbored any resentment when the King refused to take you back?" Monseigneur pressed on.

Lestrade's mouth thinned into a grim line. "It was…necessary," he replied.

And indeed, it had been of the utmost necessity for both of them. Whether he would admit it or not, Monseigneur had needed someone skillful and trustworthy to manage his soldiers for him. After getting rid of Lestrade's five predecessors under one pretext or another, the King had finally had enough of Monseigneur's antics and he had been coldly furious over the shabby treatment of his favorite. It was either Lestrade stayed on, Mycroft had declared, or Monseigneur would find his household dissolved and combined with the King's own. Of course, it had been a preposterous idea, but there was no telling what his brother was capable of when he was in a rage. Just the thought of having to face the King for dinner and perhaps even supper every day had been enough to stifle Monseigneur's arguments. Besides, Lestrade had proven to be an excellent administrator and was the least irritating of the noblemen the King had sent his way.

For his part, it had become imperative for Lestrade to be sent away from the hotbed of court politics because the King's partiality for his company had instigated a vicious backlash from various barons jealous of the King's patronage that Lestrade was seen to enjoy, no matter how well deserved. As Lestrade had come to learn, being the sovereign's favorite could be a blessing and a curse at the same time.

It had not been an easy thing for the King to banish his favorite from court, yet Mycroft had done so before Lestrade's name was forever soiled and he would be forced to fight for his honor. In the King's private summons to chastise him, Monseigneur had been made aware of his brother's sacrifice in harsh and no uncertain terms. Afterwards, Mycroft had handed Lestrade back to Monseigneur, declaring they should both make the best of their lot. And yet, despite that inauspicious beginning to their working relationship, they had somehow managed to set aside their differences and made things work between them.

With Lestrade safely out of harm's way, the King had been left with more room to deal with his critics one by one with his usual sly and insidious tactics, but it had taken time. After the furor had effectively died down at court, the King had tried to recall Lestrade, but Monseigneur had flatly refused to give him up by then. Perhaps what had been even more surprising was that Lestrade himself had chosen to stay with Monseigneur.

Monseigneur looked at his silver-haired general now and remembered him with a head of jet-black hair when he had first arrived. He said, "You've not answered my question. The truth, Lestrade. Now's your chance to spare me nothing from your barbed tongue."

When it finally came to his lips, Lestrade's smile was a little wry. "I have no regrets, my lord," he said staunchly. His smile widened as he murmured, "It's funny you should ask that question now."

"How so?"

"I remember John Watson asking me the same thing back in the garrison," answered Lestrade. "Though not in terms of exile, of course. He asked me if it's worth it, serving you."

Monseigneur forced himself to remain still as he asked, his tone carefully neutral, "Did he? And what did you tell him?"

"I told him yes, of course," said Lestrade, "if he's strong enough. And I think he is. He's settling down rather well, I must say. He's not been much trouble, I trust, my lord?"

Monseigneur said nothing as he sullenly watched the subject of their conversation let fly Donovan's boomerang in the courtyard. John had no business to appear so cheery and unaffected after what very nearly happened between them last night. Then, he murmured, "You've not voiced your opinion on the King's upcoming marriage."

Lestrade was startled. "Haven't I?" he asked. "Of course, I wish His Majesty every happiness."

"Do you really?" Monseigneur asked, his tone dull.

Lestrade frowned. "Of course," he said, wondering what Monseigneur was about. "The King is my oldest and dearest friend. I will always wish him the very best."

Monseigneur closed his eyes briefly. For the life of him, he did not know how Mycroft and Lestrade managed it. Even he did not know the actual extent of their relationship. It was hard to define, but what his brother and Lestrade had was a kind of devoted kinship that was commonly seen among Gaaldinian men friends and close male associates serving together for a long time in the armies. It was a kind of affection that went deeper than normal friendship, flirting on the very margins of intimacy without actually overstepping itself. Even so, it was not without risk and much care was exercised in making sure certain lines were never crossed. What Monseigneur felt for John was a different thing altogether— from the very start, it was something far more primal and passionate, exceeding the boundaries of accepted conventions by a full mile, at the very least. Needless to say, it could become an extremely complicated and dangerous situation. Something to be exploited by enemies, and Monseigneur had lots of those.

For once, Monseigneur's train of thought was not difficult to follow. Lestrade was thinking along the same lines, with an important addition: what made the situation even more dangerous was that once he was in the thick of things, Monseigneur would hardly care what people thought of him or his actions. This was enough to prompt Lestrade to ask in a concerned tone, "What has brought this on, my lord? Does John Watson have anything—"

"He's not to be faulted for anything." Monseigneur's tone was sharp.

_Oh, God_, thought Lestrade in dismay as he noted Monseingeur's lack of denial. Of course, he had noticed some signs along the way these past few weeks, and there had been whispers. He had also heard of the King's confrontation with John and the drama that had ensued. Lestrade wondered just how many in the castle knew about it. All the servants, no doubt.

This was not good.

Incredibly still, instead of backing down, Monseigneur whisked around in a swirl of royal blue robes and pinned Lestrade with an intense gaze. "Has John ever mentioned his family in any way to you?" he asked abruptly.

Lestrade was momentarily taken aback by his question, but finally answered, "No. He's never mentioned anything about his life in Angria. Of course, I won't be surprised if he's got a wife and children tucked away somewhere in the Highlands. How old is he, anyway? Eight and twenty? Perhaps even thirty?"

Monseigneur was fairly certain that John currently had no family, but Lestrade's words were the last thing he wanted to hear because, in a way, he was bringing flesh to what was mere bones before. He suddenly found that he did not want to consider the very real possibility that John had a wife and children.

A stretch of uncomfortable silence before Lestrade asked, "If you wish, my lord, I can find out if—"

"No!" Then, more softly: "There's no need. And anyway, it's not important. He's just being…recalcitrant. I'll bring him to heel soon enough."

This time, Lestrade could not suppress his alarm. He cleared his throat after a moment and said, "A suggestion, my lord?"

Monseigneur resisted the urge to roll his eyes and drawled, "By all means."

"Whatever your plans to bring the man to heel, don't drag his family into it," advised Lestrade urgently. "A man may get used to a lot of things, even something as extreme as being held captive, but never this form of personal intrusion. He may forgive a wrong inflicted upon him on other grounds, but never anything that touches his family."

"I am his lord and master now. I can do whatever I wish with him," replied Monseigneur coldly.

Lestrade shook his head. "I fear not in this case, my lord," he said, refusing to give way. "Not if you do not wish to have a knife stuck in your back in the middle of the night."

"John would never do such a thing," retorted Monseigneur, the surprise in his voice only assuring Lestrade that the thought of infuriating John with attempts to ply any information about his family from him had never even occurred to Monseigneur.

Something seemed to snap in Lestrade then, driving him to retort: "I know I would."

There was only stony silence as Monseigneur looked at him with shuttered eyes and said nothing. Lestrade could see black fury mounting steadily in those eyes but he was far from done.

"You told me to spare you nothing, my lord," reminded Lestrade obstinately. "There are limits to what a man can take, and there is such a thing as breaking him. Once it happens, you will find that there may not be a way to put him back together in one piece."

He had expected Monseigneur to scoff angrily, perhaps even let loose a stream of hurtful invective. What he did not expect was Monseigneur's reply. "In case you've not noticed, the man is already broken, Lestrade. In more places than one. Yet here he is, still standing. He's stronger than you're making him out to be. I've no plans to break him further. I just want..."

Monseigneur broke off before he could finish. What _did _he want? For the first time in a long while, he did not know. All of a sudden, he felt like he'd stepped off the chessboard and was on unfamiliar terrain, unsure of what move to make next.

To say that Lestrade was shocked by his lord's words would have been an understatement. For several minutes, he did not know what to say. Finally, he managed, "You must allow a man to keep a secret or two about his past. When he's ready, he will divulge all. Until then, it would be unwise to force it out of him."

Lestrade watched as Monseigneur impatiently jerked his head away at his words but forbore to comment. Monseigneur had already said too much, revealed more than what was necessary. Already, Lestrade could feel him sweeping everything back in and locking it away behind those cold, pale eyes.

Another moment of tight-lipped silence, then Lestrade said, "He's really this special to you then, my lord." It was not a question.

Monseigneur was done talking. He merely lifted his chin a fraction as he stared at Lestrade haughtily, almost defiantly.

But it was Lestrade's turn to surprise Monseigneur. "He will need to be protected at court," was all he said.

Monseigneur hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

* * *

Lestrade was not sure what to make of his extraordinary conversation with Monseigneur. He now had an entirely new set of problems in his hands, the foremost of which was his uncertainty if his warning would sink in sufficiently with the man. So he decided to try John. Between the two, Lestrade felt it was time he dealt with the adult in this situation.

It was not going to be easy talking to him though. Lestrade actually did not know how to start or what to say, really. All he knew was that he had to convey to John the importance of not losing his temper with Monseigneur in the coming days and murdering him in his sleep.

He did not get a chance until after dinner, when he found John among the young people in the topiary, the Lady Mary's special sanctuary in the vast gardens. It had been years since he was last here, but it was easy enough to trace their whereabouts in the yew maze; all he had to do was follow their laughing voices. He was rounding a corner of neatly trimmed shrubbery when he was startled to hear the deep, drawling baritone of Monsiegneur, followed by irreverent hoots of laughter and applause. But of course, that was impossible. He was sure Monseigneur was still in the Lair, caged in his study going over various papers and probably driving Dimmock mad in the process. Also, he had yet to see anyone laugh like that in front of Monseigneur.

True enough, it turned out to be only Billy, doing one of his voices again. Lestrade's nephew, when he got over being painfully shy, was a clever and natural mimic, able to switch from the shrill tones of a young girl to the full, barrel-chested boom of a battle-hardened soldier seemingly at will. Once, Lestrade had even come upon the boy impersonating _his _own voice— the harsh, low grate of it unmistakably his yet sounding strange when it issued from the throat of another. Needless to say, he had given Billy a sound cuffing for his efforts.

The little group came into view at last: the Lady Mary, or Molly as she insisted on being called nowadays, and John seated on a low marble bench, cheering him on while Billy stood in front of them, hands on his hips, the straight line of his back a disturbingly accurate rendition of Monseigneur's imperious posture. Were it not for Billy's ginger curls, Lestrade would have found himself blinking and shaking his head just to clear it a bit.

His sudden appearance immediately checked the laughing banter. Billy caught the look on the faces of the Lady Mary and John and, turning, gave a small start at seeing his uncle glowering at him a few feet away.

"My...my lord," stammered Billy, his voice his very own once more.

"Later for you," growled Lestrade. "John, a minute of your time, if you will."

"He didn't mean anything by it, you know," John began as soon as they were out of earshot.

Lestrade gave an irritated huff. "Stop covering for him," he said shortly. "He's here to learn the form and manners of an honorable knight, not to indulge in tomfoolery."

He stopped and turned to survey John in full. He looked well, and he had filled out quite nicely since Lestrade saw him last. The difference a few weeks in the Lair and Mary Turner's cooking could make.

"I see you've settled down satisfactorily, John. You've not had difficulty making friends," Lestrade said after a moment. "Are you happy here?"

Upon hearing Lestrade's words, something in John's eyes changed, grew guarded. "I'm...never bored," he said carefully.

Lestrade nodded. "Well, good. That's good, I suppose," he said abstractedly. "Monseigneur has been treating you well, then?"

This time, John did not bother replying, merely tilted his head an angle as he fixed Lestrade with an opaque gaze: _Your point?_

Yes, that. He was getting there.

How to explain to John the concept of being a favorite to a Gaaldinian prince? Lestrade absolutely had no idea. For God's sake, he was a general with a series of successful military campaigns to his name, not someone people came to for personal advice and a bit of handholding. This was not his division. He ought to have enlisted Lady Hudson's assistance in this, but the subject matter was not suitable for discussion in front of ladies, even someone as mature and experienced as Lady Hudson.

John stared at Lestrade as the venerable lord shifted uncomfortably in front of him, groping for words. Oh, God, where to begin?

Lestrade finally said, "You're not a stupid man, John. I think you know your position with regards Monseigneur."

If John was surprised, he did not let it show much. He said nothing, merely stood his ground as he continued to regard Lestrade with raised eyebrows.

Lestrade's next words were hopelessly blunt: "Do you like him, John?" Catching John's expression as his brows came crashing down over his eyes, Lestrade hastily backtracked: "You don't have to answer that. Trust me, I don't want to know."

"What's going on?" asked John, clearly sensing a trap of some sort.

Lestrade sighed. He felt like he'd dug himself into a hole with very little choice but to plough right on ahead. "I'm sure you would have noticed by now that Monseigneur is not...like us," he said.

Before John could misunderstand him further, he hastened to add, "What I mean is, he's a Prince of the Blood, John. He's our prince and our lord. He belongs to an entirely different class of men altogether and as such, our expectations of him must be different. Do you understand?"

It seemed John did. "If you mean we're supposed to allow princes to do as they please with us, yeah, I think I do," he said, his voice cool. "Only it's not supposed to work that way."

"Well, I'm glad you think so, too," said Lestrade, relieved. "Because it only works to a certain degree out there. He may have absolute power over us, but Monseigneur also needs people— steady, down-to-earth people— who will keep his feet firmly on the ground for him. And out of all the people he could have chosen, he chose you for the job. You may not think it, but men would kill to be in the position you're in now."

John snorted and looked away. Obviously, he had his doubts about that.

"But it's not an easy position, trust me," continued Lestrade, shaking his head. "It's one of the most difficult in the world. There will be times when you will be sorely tested by him, when he will prove to be beyond endurance. I think you've already noticed that. But you're one of us now, and we are all his people. We do not expect a prince to adhere to consistency, but we've sworn our allegiance to him. You will honor your word and look out for him despite everything he'll throw your way, won't you?"

John frowned at Lestrade's urgent tone, then something seemed to occur to him. "Wait, hold on," he said. "What's he told you, exactly? Did he put you up to this?"

"He's going to try to test your limits, John," growled Lestrade, reaching the end of his patience at last, "as he did to all of us at one point or another. He will regard nothing of yours sacred in his quest to know everything about you. Don't break down in the process, or even worse, break him to pieces. Understood?"

John pursed his lips, thoughtfully. Finally, he said, "That was what he did to you the first week you came into his service, didn't he?"

Lestrade muttered something under his breath, something about tracking down whoever had been spreading these things around and putting him slowly to death, then he said quite clearly, "Yes. And as you can see, I survived. My question is: can you survive Monseigneur, John?"

John found he could hardly resist, when the man phrased it like that. "Yeah," he said with a slow smile touching his lips. "I think I can."

* * *

Data. Monseigneur desperately needed more data before he could plan his offensive. Short of asking John direct questions, though, he was not certain how to go about obtaining the information he needed.

A name. He just needed one name to crack open the mystery of John's past.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, he came upon it days later courtesy of Lady Hudson.

Lady Hudson had trapped him in one of her tedious interviews outlining the expenses to be incurred for dressing the entire household for the royal wedding. Apparently, Lady Hudson's proposed budget for clothes had been high enough to necessitate Monseigneur's approval even before she broached the subject with the Wardrobe people, who ran the royal household funds.

Five minutes into the meeting, and Monseigneur would have wanted nothing more than to reach out and claw at the entire length of the table before him as he was forced to listen to the dear lady enumerating the various materials she would need to hand over to the tailors: bolts of linen, velvet, silk and taffeta; cloths of gold and silver, and trimmings of all sorts. For the evening entertainments alone, she and Molly would need at least four gowns each and that did not include the costumes for the masques yet—

"Molly. Who's Molly?" Monseigneur queried, nearly out of his mind with boredom and catching the name as it nearly flew past his attention.

"Oh, that would be Mary the Younger," answered Lady Hudson. "Don't you know she'd rather be called Molly nowadays? It's a sweet little name. John gave it to her, apparently."

"John?" Monseigneur repeated incredulously, sounding like he'd received an unexpected blow to the gut.

"Yes, John Watson. Well, it's true, what with six Marys in the household, it does get to be rather confusing..."

Lady Hudson prattled happily on, unaware of the tumult Monseigneur was suddenly in.

There it was. The name to unlock John's past, _the name Monseigneur needed to know to realize his worst fears had just come true: he had a rival for John's affections._

Mary. The name of John's dead wife.

The name of his pain was Mary.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The **Wardrobe**, along with a chamberlain, made up the personal part of medieval English government known as the **King's household**. All expenditures incurred in housing, clothing and feeding royal personages and their people passed through this influential office. Originally the term was used to describe the room where the king's clothes, armour and treasure were stored, but over time, it was expanded to describe the department of clerks who ran it. The wardrobe treasure of gold and jewels, funded by but not under the control of the treasury (and therefore Parliament) enabled the king to make secret and rapid payments to fund his diplomatic and military operations. (Source: Wikipedia)

On the subject of kings and princes with their male favorites, the notorious relationship between **Piers Gaveston** and **Edward II** came foremost to my mind. Mycroft circumvented the possible consequences by sending Lestrade away while Monseigneur has yet to show his hand when it comes to his relationship with John.


	26. Chapter 25

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 25**

* * *

**Special thanks**: To Sher_locked_up, for her wonderful beta, as always.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

When Monseigneur was in a mood, everyone in the Lair trembled.

He was in a foul mood for no apparent cause and it went on and on for days with no end in sight. Eventually, even Lady Hudson lost some of her unflappable calm and openly wondered if something had come up between Monseigneur and the King to bring about this spectacular episode of the doldrums. A fraternal row was the only thing she could think of to instigate a sulk of this magnitude.

Nobody was exempt from it: from Lady Hudson down to Billy— anybody luckless enough to have to deal with Monseigneur was treated to a few choice words from the man that left each person smarting in a different way: Lady Hudson walked out of his insolent presence in a huff, all ruffled feathers, after he chided her for having no more sense than a magpie when it came to managing his household; Billy was a white-faced, trembling mess after Monseigneur was done with him over some minor hiccup in the execution of his errands; and poor Lady Molly was reduced to bitter tears after he threatened to give her away to the first traveling minstrel visiting the Lair after she tried to engage him in small talk and gently tease him out of his ill temper. Mike Stamford fared no better as he got blasted for mixing some formulation that Monseigneur pronounced unfit for human consumption. Lestrade, that lucky bastard, had removed himself just in time to avoid Monseigneur's verbal swipes, taking his soldiers with him as he headed back to the garrison. Witnessing his departure, John had not failed to notice that Lestrade seemed in a hurry to be away from the Lair, away from his master.

And then there was the music.

Monseigneur would shut himself up in his rooms for hours, not working, not letting anybody else in and making the darkest, most disturbingly sensual music John had ever heard on his vielle. John had seen Lady Hudson cross herself when she heard the sounds issuing from his apartments and knew that the unusual and deeply compelling notes that issued from Monseigneur's instrument were somehow forbidden, diabolical.

Whenever he was not making music of his own, Monseigneur surrounded himself with the company of the troubadours and minstrels who now came to the Lair with their songs and stories from far away, hoping for his royal patronage and largesse. Spring had now settled in fully and the Lair was alive with green, growing things in its gardens and courtyards, boldly clinging and creeping up its solid, venerable stone walls. During the afternoons and evenings, music and song would drift through the air, sometimes infused with Monseigneur's complex and ravishingly dissonant tones. It would have been a restful time, an idyllic time, but Monseigneur's foul disposition was casting a gloomy raincloud over everything.

After a few days of suffering his outrageous bad humor, everyone agreed that John should be the one to approach Monseigneur to snap him out of it. Now that Lestrade had gone, they said, nobody else could do it except John.

"Hold on a minute, what makes you think he's not been extending me the same treatment?" demanded John as the small group huddled expectantly about him one evening during supper in the small dining room. To be expected, they had all been banished from Monseigneur's presence during mealtimes— if Monseigneur cared to eat at all, that was.

He'd never told them about his incident, but the truth was John had not been exempt from Monseigneur's tongue lashing as well. He was new to this side of Monseigneur's temperament and had not recognized the danger signs for what they were one evening while they were poring over some books in the library. Monseigneur had been unresponsive to John's distracted musings and thinking he had merely slipped into his mind palace, John had finally looked up to see the man staring at him through narrowed eyes from across the table.

The words had died on John's lips as he took in the stormy look in Monseigneur's eyes.

Oh. Oh hell, what had he done now?

John had licked his lips and said carefully, "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Oh, bravo, John," Monseigneur had replied sarcastically in a voice low and trembling slightly with suppressed emotion. "As ever your keen observational skills are quick to notice something's amiss."

John had frowned. Definitely not alright, to judge from Monseigneur's rage that no mask could conceal.

"What's going on?" John had pressed on, still in that careful tone.

"As if you'd care," Monseigneur had spat out.

John had raised his brows at that. "I...maybe, yeah," he had found himself replying uncertainly. "If there's anything I can do to help, of course I'd—"

Monseigneur had scoffed as he shook his head dismissively. "Exactly! You can't do anything about it!" he had snapped. And, very strangely: "You've not been able to help yourself or anyone else so what makes you think you can help me? And anyway, it's not as if it has anything to do with me. I am fine. In fact, I've never been better. So why don't you just _leave. Me. Alone!"_

And John had. With his hands held up in front of him as if in surrender, he had stood up from his chair and very deliberately turned and walked away. It was only when he was standing outside the library doors that John had realized he was breathing heavily.

He had absolutely no idea what had just happened.

Lying awake that night on his divan long after Monseigneur had pointedly drawn the curtains around himself in his bed, John had let his fingers trail across his chest to settle above his racing heart, thinking in confused disbelief that it had only been mere days since Monseigneur had very tenderly touched him there with a whispered promise: "Soon."

And now, suddenly, this.

The only logical conclusion John could reach was that the man had gone mad.

So John stared at the anxious faces of the people gathered about him now and said, "I can't do it."

"Oh, John, of course you can," said the Lady Molly entreatingly. "He listens to you. Remember that time when you and William were late for dinner? You managed beautifully to turn him around then."

"Yes, well, that was that. This is different," said John. Definitely, this was not one of Monseigneur's usual little outbursts of petulance. Whatever this was, it was huge. And when he thought about it in connection to Monseigneur's cryptic words and Lestrade's advice given to him several days ago, he began to worry.

"At least try to find out what's been eating at him," urged Lady Hudson. "I declare, I've not been able to make heads nor tails with that lad, and I've known him the longest among you."

"I don't think he's going to open up to me anymore than to any of you," pressed John stubbornly. These people must be mad if they thought he'd suffer Monseigneur's atrocious behavior gladly. "Maybe the best thing to do is to leave him be."

There was a short silence as everyone exchanged glances. The looks were hooded, knowing. Taking in John's confused frown as he looked about him, Lady Hudson explained patiently, "John, dear, you have not been with us long enough to know that this can go on for weeks and weeks. The situation is simply not acceptable."

Seeing that her words had failed to move him, Lady Hudson finally sighed in resignation. "Well, there's nothing to be done then," she said. "We will just have to leave this to the cards."

By that, Lady Hudson meant the picture cards she always carried about her person. John knew about playing cards, of course, but Lady Hudson did not just employ hers for leisurely play. Her cards, she believed, had the special power to tell her things. They were old, their edges gilded in fading gold. They had been given to her by a gypsy who had entertained at various courts in Gondal and the lower countries years before who claimed that the cards had the ability to accurately tell fortunes. More than once, Lady Hudson had resolved vexing problems and household issues she knew not the answer to by putting them to the cards, though John had noticed she took care never to do so in front of Monseigneur.

Now, she took the cards out from the voluminous folds of her dress and started distributing them around the table, one card per person.

"Don't worry, this is nothing more than a form of lottery," reassured Lady Hudson as Billy peered suspiciously at his downturned card. "You know the rules: somebody calls out a particular picture and whoever draws the card is it. We keep drawing until there is a match. I'll go first: La Pappese."

Everybody turned over their cards. No match.

"Billy, give us a card, there's a dear," she urged.

And so it went on until the fourth try, when Molly was asked her choice of card. She said, "L'amoureux." Easily her favorite.

"No match?" inquired Lady Hudson, peering anxiously at the cards that everyone had turned over. "John?"

John was staring at the card he had in his hand, his face like thunder. Without another word, he flipped it face-up on the table— a picture of two young lovers smiling at each other.

A little whoop went up around the small group.

"You're it, John," said Mike, half-relieved, half-commiserating.

Lady Hudson beamed. "So you see, John," she announced, satisfied. "It is nothing short of fate."

John shook his head and fought not to roll his eyes. This was absurd, but fair was fair. He could not imagine how the cards could be rigged. "I'll try but I can't promise anything," he told them, sighing.

* * *

After a few days Monseigneur roused himself to continue his work, although there was hardly any change in his recently altered state. His outburst with John was never repeated, and Monseigneur continued to give him instructions for his work with the antidote, albeit they were delivered in a glacial tone.

John knew that Monseigneur could be very effective in everything he chose to apply himself to, and now he was bent on mentally distancing himself away from everyone. In the course of those days, John would find himself occasionally within the man's orbit yet he had not been able to breach the wall of silence that separated them. Any attempt on his part to begin a conversation was met either with stony silence or an occasional, monosyllabic growl when Monseigneur absolutely needed to reply to his queries. After a while, John gave up talking to him, refusing to be affected by the cold shoulder treatment and relegating his frustration to the back of his mind, along with myriad foul thoughts of the man. Two could play at this game of ignoring each other.

It had occurred to John at the very beginning of their acquaintance that he was not dealing with a normal adult when it came to Monseigneur, so he would just have to wait until Monseigneur was ready to approach or be approached by him.

And finally, he was.

Surprising John in the glass house early one morning, Monseigneur said, "Have you boiled the mushrooms as I've instructed?"

John silently handed over the extract he had prepared. He did not know what Monseigneur would want to do with an extract made from poisonous mushrooms, and he found that he did not want to know.

Monseigneur took it, eyes averted, then said, "The dungeons, later after supper."

John knew that silence was probably the best recourse in the situation, but after days and days of enduring it, _fuck_ silence.

"Oh, so we're talking again now, are we?" he asked recklessly, his tone sullen and hands braced against the edge of the table before him as he looked sideways at Monseigneur.

Monseigneur refused to take the bait. He merely tucked the vial of extract away in the pocket of his cote-hardie and murmured, "Don't be late."

Having obtained what he came for, he turned around abruptly and left.

So now the man was not even going to look at John in the face. It was hopelessly confounding. John did not know why, and he would rather die than admit this to anyone, but Monseigneur's sudden about-face with his treatment of him hurt. Yes, hurt. There was no other word to describe that tight, painful squeeze of his traitor-heart inside his chest. It had been years since he felt it last and the realization that he was still capable of feeling like this was not welcome.

All these weeks, he had thought he was finally coming to know the man, but the truth was that he knew almost nothing about him. Honestly, Monseigneur did not need the mask on his face to camouflage himself.

Something had occurred during the past few days to upset him terribly, but John could not think of what it could be. The only transgression that came to John's mind was Monseigneur's discovery of a mangled book in the library not long after the King's visit. Clearly, it had been Baskerville's work and it had irked Monseigneur considerably, but his annoyance had been more amusing than terrible and that episode had taken place more than a fortnight ago. No, this one was much more recent, the possible cause a much more serious offense.

And John still could not make sense of what Monseigneur had hurled at him: _It's not in your power to do anything...if you can't help yourself or anyone else how can you possibly help me?_

John found he did not like mysteries very much. Monseigneur was trying to tell him something, and he was going to find out what it was in one way or the other tonight.

* * *

John had supper with the others in the small dining room as usual, and afterwards made his way down the dungeons through the bookcases in the bed chamber.

He had steeled himself for whatever lay in store for him for the evening, yet despite his misgivings and the memory of his last encounter there, he actually found that a part of him— that morbid part that always thirsted for danger and excitement— was actually looking forward to seeing the dungeons again.

_Seeing Monseigneur again, and talking to him at length._

Oh fuck, he didn't just think that. Really, he didn't.

He'd try to find out what was ailing him. That was all John was going to do. Under no circumstances was he going to acknowledge, even to himself, that he'd missed him.

The great iron door to Monseigneur's work area was flung wide open when John reached the dungeons, and he stopped at the doorway, looking in. He'd learned his lesson; he was never going to set foot inside its premises again without being called in.

This time though, he caught sight of Monseigneur the moment he peeped in, seated behind one wide table, immersed in his experiments. He cleared his throat and waited.

"Don't dawdle by the doorway, John," he said without looking up. "Come in."

Well, there was no change in his sour mood that was for certain.

"And hello to you, too," John muttered low beneath his breath. It was not inaudible though. Monseigneur flicked a glance at his direction before looking away again.

Resentment flared through John as he caught the fleeting glance. "So why am I here?" he asked bluntly.

"I want you to see for yourself the effects of the antidote you've helped make," said Monseigneur.

John tore his rapt gaze from the wall where he had been manacled into place previously and said, "I can't believe this. You've really got a bloody, non-renovated torture chamber for your workroom."

Monseigneur regarded him for a moment then very deliberately drawled, "Congratulations for stating the very obvious, John. Perhaps you would know by now that to me, what matters is the work. The rest is just transport. Now come here and tell me what you see."

John would have wanted to say a whole lot more but he reined himself in. Somehow he knew he would never be able to bring Monseigneur to understand the horror of his choice of surroundings. He took a few hesitant steps and stopped beside Monseigneur, looking at the glassware in front of them. There was some dark green fluid in a tube, held in place by an iron fixture as it was slowly heated by an oil lamp.

"You remember my detection kit to test poison. To judge from the dark green color elicited upon heating, that mushroom extract I've asked you to prepare can kill within seconds," said Monseigneur. "However, upon adding a few drops of the antidote we have developed thus far..."

He took out a small vial and proceeded to add a drop or two of fluid into the tube.

"It disappeared. The green color has disappeared," said John, leaning in to look closer at the tube whose fluid was rapidly turning clear and colorless.

"The poison has been neutralized," said Monseigneur, his voice soft and intense.

"The antidote is working then," said John, looking at Monseigneur with keen eyes.

"For poisoned mushrooms, deadly nightshade and its derivatives, and about a dozen other varieties of common poisons, yes," Monseigneur replied, eyes bright, mirroring the excited interest that John felt deep inside. "We've yet to discover its efficacy against the more exotic forms of toxins and we shall try them all, one by one. It's safe to say the antidote is now ready to be tested on a subject."

John's eyes flared wide in surprise at Monseigneur's words. "What…subject?" he asked uneasily, not quite able to control his impulse to scan the room for any signs of a prisoner. When he saw none, the look of sudden alarm in John's eyes as the thought hit him was almost comical.

For the first time in days, a small smile twisted at a corner of Monseigneur's mouth. "You will see soon enough," he said. "And no, you're not going to be the subject so you need not look at me like that."

"Huh," said John, gaze dropping down once again to the clear liquid in the tube in front of him.

A lull in the conversation— now was his chance; he ought to seize it. "Your little tests appear to be working, and the antidote is coming along fine. Good for you. So why the long face these past few days?"

There was the slightest pause, and then Monseigneur looked away, his eyes suddenly hooded. "We're not here to discuss that," he said abruptly.

"Oh? I don't see how we can discuss anything else without getting that out of the way first," replied John implacably. "You've taken great pains to show your displeasure to everyone these past days, so why the _hell_ can we not discuss it?"

"Because you're not ready," answered Monseigneur, his voice cold and hard and final. "You're not going to take kindly to what I have to say."

John grit his teeth for a moment, then muttered, "Try me."

Monseigneur shook his head stubbornly. "No."

At that, something in John seemed to snap. He did not realize that he had grabbed hold of the front of Monseigneur's shirt until he felt the fabric twisting painfully against his fingers as he forced Monseigneur to turn to him. "This really has something to do with me then," he said, voice suddenly low and harsh as he fought a sudden swell of nameless panic deep inside him. "Why _can't_ you just tell me what this is all about?"

"Let go, John," said Monseigneur, sighing, sounding as though the entire thing had become unbearably tedious. His long fingers reached out to clasp at John's fist on his shirt, attempting to pry John's hand away.

John stared at Monseigneur's averted face incredulously. Christ, even now, _even now,_ he still refused to look at him!

_"Look at me!"_ John did not recognize his own voice then, and it startled Monseigneur enough to turn his gaze back at him for a moment.

"What have I done to bring about such a change in you? What can possibly be the matter with you that you would think it fit to caress me one day and turn from me the next?" asked John, barely recognizing himself in the words that had come pouring out of his mouth.

Monseigneur said nothing, but John could see his lips thinning, his mouth setting into a grim, rigid line as he tried to bite something back. A strange, quivering tension was evident in every line of his body. John had never known Monseigneur to hold anything back— he'd never thought him capable of it— and he realized this must be very serious indeed if the man was trying to restrain himself from speaking, from doing something regrettable.

Right now, though, John was past all self-restraint himself. He _needed_ to know what Monseigneur was holding back.

"You enjoy playing these games, don't you?" he continued through gritted teeth. He had never felt so angry, so hurt for such a long, long time. "You enjoy messing around with people's hearts, toying with them, and then tearing them to shreds—"

"You don't understand, John!" Monseigneur's sudden, harsh cry was made all the more startling by the depth of misery John found there.

"Then make me understand," John urged, fist clenching even more insistently on Monseigneur's shirt as he gave him a hard shake. "If you can't tell me, then show me _why—"_

And Monseigneur did. Without warning, he launched himself at John, taking him by surprise, giving him no time to react, to step back, as Monseigneur caught the sides of his face with both hands and leaned in to kiss him with an open mouth.

* * *

**Author's notes**: The **vielle** is a European bowed string instrument used in the Medieval ages, similar to the modern violin but with a somewhat longer and deeper body, five (rather than four) gut strings, and a leaf-shaped pegbox with frontal tuning pegs. The instrument was also known as a _fidel_ or a _viuola_, although the French name for the instrument, _vielle_, is generally used. It was one of the most popular instruments of the period, and was used by troubadours and jongleurs from the 13th through the 15th centuries. (Source: Wikipedia)

Monseigneur's dark and devilish music employs the use of the **tritone**, a musical phenomenon suppressed by the Church during the Medieval Ages. It is a musical interval that spans three whole tones, like the diminished fifth or augmented fourth. This interval, the gap between two notes played in succession or simultaneously, was branded **Diabolus in Musica** or the **Devil's Interval** by medieval musicians. A rich mythology has grown up around it. Many believe that the Church wanted to eradicate the dissonant sounds from its music because it moved people "inappropriately" and invoked sexual feelings, or that it was genuinely the work of the Devil. The Devil's Interval enjoyed great popularity among composers in the 19th Century, when there were a lot of presentations of evil built around the tritone. Varied musical pieces ranging from Black Sabbath, Wagner's Gotterdammerung and West Side Story to the theme tune of the Simpsons all rely heavily on tritones. (From BBC News Magazine, "The Devil's Music")

Troubadours and minstrels played an important role in the medieval courts of Europe. As travelling composers and performers of songs dealing mainly with chivalry and courtly love, they also served as messengers of vital news from far places. If Monseigneur would need an equivalent of the homeless network or the Baker Street Irregulars during this period, the minstrels and troubadours would fit perfectly into the role as his eyes and ears from all over the kingdom and beyond.

Lady Hudson's deck of picture cards is lifted from the **Tarot**, composed of 78 cards grouped into the major and minor arcana. To be sure, the Tarot as a medium of divination became wildly popular much, much later, though it had its origins in the playing cards that first appeared around the Medieval ages in France. For the sake of some fortune telling to be incorporated into future chapters of the story, I've decided to adopt it here as we know the cards today. La Papesse is the card showing The High Priestess, and Les Amoureux (L'amoureux) is the card of The Lovers. In the earliest versions, the picture denotes a man surrounded by two women with Cupid hovering above him with his drawn bow.


	27. Chapter 26

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 26**

* * *

**Special Thanks:** To Sher_locked_up, for her wonderful beta, as always.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

John should have seen him coming.

Actually, he did, yet for some reason his normally sharp reflexes failed him at the very last moment. He had seen Monseigneur coming and known in a split second what he was about to do, but instead of swerving away, something froze within him as Monseigneur reached out to cup his face with both hands and leaned in to kiss him.

In that moment— no more than a blink of an eye— he could have stepped back, veered aside, or thrust out a hand to keep Monseigneur at bay. He could have done all these things and more, but instead, he did nothing. And before he knew it, he was being kissed. Hard. That beautiful, luscious mouth, so cruel with the lashing words it could utter entirely without mercy, was upon his— hot and open and insistent, allowing John no chance to think, to escape from its onslaught.

Monseigneur had kissed him before, but this felt different. This was no cool, calculated kiss. This was a thing raw and desperate, full of urgency and fear— as though Monseigneur were afraid of letting John go. John did not understand it- any of it. He tried to turn his head aside, to break the kiss, but Monseigneur merely slanted his mouth to claim John's lips more completely. The best that John could manage with his trapped mouth was a muffled, incoherent cry which could mean anything or nothing at all. It was no use trying to wrench away from the man's grip; Monseigneur's hands were like iron bands on either side of his face, holding him still as Monseigneur boldly reached out with his tongue to lick the seam of John's lips open.

A caressing sweep of Monseigneur's tongue, and John felt as though he had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. Finally, a great shuddering breath stole out from him as his eyes finally flitted closed and his mouth opened of its own accord, affording Monseigneur entrance at last. At the first touch of his tongue against his, John felt something abruptly give way deep inside him, like floodgates bursting. Suddenly, all thoughts of resisting seemed very far away as John fought not to drown in the deluge of want that swept through him.

Dimly, John realized this was what it meant to lose.

It felt nothing at all like losing.

As though sensing the change in John, the touch of Monseigneur's mouth softened into a slow, sensual tease, coaxing John farther away from his doubts and his confusion, until the only thing that he could think of was how long it had been since he'd last felt this way- to be wanted, needed. It had been a very long time. John felt like a parched man, at last given the one thing he needed to slake his deadly thirst.

Soft. Everything was so soft. And warm, and wet. Everything felt and tasted incredibly good. He had not expected it. Indeed, he had not known what to expect in kissing another man. He had been worried about this, yet now that it was finally happening, he found it completely and surprisingly enjoyable. And sweet. So fucking _sweet._

The moist, urgent sounds of their kiss and their heavy, panting breaths seemed loud in John's ears. From somewhere very near he could hear someone moaning low in his throat but for the life of him he could not tell who was making such an odd noise. John was sure the sounds would carry far in the quiet stillness of the dungeons, but right now, he could not bring himself to care. There was no revulsion, no embarrassment; there were no second thoughts.

If John could only bring himself to admit it, this was what he had wanted ever since Monseigneur had John on his bed, touching him with his lips, his hands, everywhere except where it really mattered. What John did not realize was that, ever since then, he was slowly going mad with wanting this man.

Still too many thoughts!

Resolutely casting them all aside, John did what would have been unthinkable only a few days ago: he kissed Monseigneur back, a slow, ungentle exploration of lips and tongue as he, too, started to take and not just give. He heard Monseigneur give a low growl of approval as the kiss deepened, turned scorching, as they lost themselves in that one moment of discovery.

For now, nothing mattered except this.

It was Monseigneur who finally broke away from the kiss, his breathing ragged. He touched his forehead to John's and sighed. "Yes," he said, his voice a low, deep rumble of thunder. "Yes, John. Forget. Just forget everything."

"Your face," John said hoarsely. "God, I need…"

Almost without conscious thought, his hand was on Monseigneur's face, pushing back the mask with unsteady fingers to unveil his features. The other hand was in his hair, plunging into those dark curls so that John could see for himself if they were really as soft as they looked. For once, Monseigneur let John do as he pleased, leaning into John's touch as his hand rested on the side of his face. Those pale eyes under the thick brows were blown wide and dark, hungry.

"You want this, too," said Monseigneur, his tone tinged with wonder as he gazed down at John.

John's voice caught in his throat so that he was unable, for a moment, to speak.

"Show me just how much you want this, John," breathed Monseigneur, nose brushing John's as he angled his head to take John's mouth once again. "Tell me you want me."

Hell, yes.

As soon as John got some answers to his questions.

He moved his mouth away from Monseigneur's and murmured, "Tell me first why you're doing this. What do you mean by 'forget everything'?"

Monseigneur went still at John's words. He drew away slightly to look into John's eyes, hazy with lust, but not enough of it to drive out all rational thought. John's hand was suddenly on his nape as he made to pull away.

"Why can't you tell me?" cried John, anguished, his hand tightening at the back of Monseigneur's head, not letting him go. "After all of this. _Why?"_

"I can't!" Monseigneur cried, his voice edged with pain. "If I do so I will lose you. Lose you to _her._ And if that happens…I just…I _can't_…_!"_

"What are you talking about?" asked John, aghast. But he knew. Suddenly, he knew exactly what Sherlock was talking about. How he managed to find out about _her_ John did not know.

"Say it," John said, surging ahead of the pain even as it started deep in his heart.

"No!"

"It makes no difference now," hissed John. "Just say it and be done with it, Sherlock!"

A moment more of tense silence, their eyes locked, then Sherlock bit out, his voice low and rapid, "You're a man with many mysteries attached to your past, John. You're a stranger among your own people, but you're no stranger to tragedy. You've encountered several, but I see the main one, the one that turned your life upside down and inside out: Mary. I see your wife, Mary, deep in the shadows of your eyes whenever you look at me. She died in childbirth, didn't she? When she went, she took with her your faith in God and in yourself as a healer. She took away your happiness. The child died, too. You were left with nothing; it was the end of your world as you knew it. It felt a lot like dying, didn't it? So you went and sought death by becoming a soldier; and yet, meeting it face to face, you've vanquished it every time it reared itself in all the battles you ever fought. Fighting it afforded you a little satisfaction, a feeling of being alive, but it's hollow. Deep down inside, the emptiness remains, and you think it can never be filled. That's what it means to be haunted, John. She's long dead yet she possesses your heart, and while she's there you can't be anyone else's. You can't—"

Sherlock trailed off abruptly, biting down hard on his lip so that a band of white showed just below his mouth, and in his state of shock, John felt a moment of absolute calm as he wondered irrelevantly what Sherlock had meant to say: _You can't—,_ what?

_You can't be free to love me, _Sherlock's gaze told John accusingly_. You can't be mine._

He took advantage of John's momentary lapse to twist himself away from John's grasp. John watched in stunned dismay as Sherlock struggled to pull himself together in front of him, gathering his composure back around him like a cloak. It took him only a moment. When he looked back at John, he was Monseigneur again, aloof and haughty, his eyes veiled.

"You demanded that I tell you," he reminded John, his voice cold, as though he were already steeling himself against John's reaction, whatever it may be.

John's mouth felt incredibly dry. "Sherlock..." he rasped.

"You don't need to say it," snapped Monseigneur, voice suddenly harsh. Pained. "It's obvious, isn't it? I've lost. I've given it everything that I had but I can't compete with a ghost and a saint, John. It would be too much for me to ask you to let her go."

John shook his head. "I can't do that, Sherlock."

They stared at each other for a moment before Monseigneur gave a curt nod. "There's nothing more to be said, is there?" he murmured.

* * *

Early the next day, John found himself at the tower window overlooking the sea, allowing the soothing sound of the waves to engulf him.

He did not know how he had got here. Indeed, everything had been a blur since last night. He remembered he had begged Billy to put him up for the night in his room, several doors down Monseigneur's apartments. He must have looked ghastly, for Billy had taken one look at his face and let him in without another word. They had both lain awake on their pallets until early morning, not speaking, Billy obviously worried that Monseigneur might come charging in at any moment. But he never came, and Billy had finally drifted off, leaving John alone with his tortured thoughts.

So now here he was, chin resting on his elbows on the cool stone ledge of the window, watching in bemused wonder as the waves gathered white foam and crashed against the rocky cliffs upon which the Lair was built, over and over.

If the waves were only alive and sentient, John would have wanted to ask them why they would do it— hurl themselves endlessly against a solid, indifferent crag of rock for centuries, even millennia. To what ultimate purpose would they expend so much energy on something so futile?

But it was a ridiculous thought. He was not thinking straight this morning. He had not slept a wink, and he was just so tired. He was not even angry at Sherlock, just curious in a detached way how he had managed to make his deductions.

John sighed wearily as he stared down at the breaking waves far below him.

He had never thought he would ever live this close to the sea. This had never figured in his plans at all. Years ago, he had thought he would grow old and die, surrounded by family— his wife, children and grandchildren— on the same patch of forest land that he had regarded as home for as long as he could remember, ever since he had been taken in by the gentle healer who lived there.

John had always known he came from somewhere else. Wherever it was, he could no longer remember. His fate was common enough. He had been one of countless children displaced by the brutal clan wars that raged perpetually in the Angrian Highlands. To this day, his childhood was a blank slate, completely erased from his consciousness.

He had been ten or eleven years old when the old woman (In Angria, the best healers were almost always women) had found him wandering near the edge of the forest, exhausted and lost, bleeding profusely from a head wound, obviously in shock and unable to recall what had happened to him. He had no idea where he came from or where he was headed. He could only remember his name: John Watson.

So the healer had taken him in, dressed his wound and, when he had recovered completely, told him quite kindly that he was free to leave whenever he wished. John had not wished it. His memories of his past life had never returned. Somehow, he had known that they would never return, and he had nowhere else to go. The days had stretched to weeks, months. John had made himself useful around the house by carrying water, chopping wood for the fire, and later, accompanying the woman on her rounds to collect ingredients from the forest to make into medicine. The healer had long been a widow, and childless. Living several hours away from the nearest village, the long, dark nights could be intensely lonely, the occasional wolves that emerged from the forest could be a serious nuisance, and it had been good to have somebody to talk to around a cheerful, blazing fire in the cold evenings. In time, John had taken to calling her Màthair, and she had taught him the minute details of her trade: the ancient healing arts of the forest, passed down from one generation of wise women to the next.

When John thought about it, he had been incredibly lucky to be given a chance to settle down to an ordinary life after the nameless upheavals that had uprooted him from his childhood. When he had met and fallen in love with Mary, a girl from the village whom he had treated for some minor ailment, he thought he had beaten the odds not once, but twice-a miracle. Truly, he had been blessed, and he had felt even more so when Mary had announced happily that she was with child not long after they had been married.

Fate, though, had other ideas. It always did.

Despite all their prayers for a safe and routine delivery, the birth had been difficult from the very start. The babe had not turned around properly during the pregnancy, and he had to be born feet first. Initially, John had not been that worried. He and Màthair had attended to breech deliveries before, but this one...Mary's labor had drawn on and on and despite all the maneuvers the two healers had insituted to align him properly along his mother's narrow passages, the babe had shown no sign of emerging.

By the end of the first day, they had known they were in serious trouble. By then John had learned to get past Mary's agonized screams and his only thought had been to deliver the babe before he lost Mary as well. In the small hours of the next morning, John had finally managed to pull the little body out of Mary: a boy, fully formed and beautiful, still warm from his mother's womb, but dead.

"It is God's will," Mary had whispered brokenly, tears trickling down her dim and tired eyes, and John had merely nodded, his mouth tight. He had baptized his son himself and prayed that this ordeal was now at an end.

But it had not ended there.

Exhausted beyond all endurance, Mary's womb had refused to tighten around itself. Despite the pressure from John's kneading fingers, despite Màthair's herbal brews to force it to contract, the organ had remained lax, unresponsive, and Mary had bled. And bled. And bled. There had been so much blood on John's hands and arms, on the floor, everywhere. Everwhere except inside Mary's body.

In the end, no amount of wine, or medicine, or Màthair's holy medalions and their combined prayers had done the trick. John had lost his faith in holy charms and relics ever since. He had lost faith, pure and simple. To John, nothing seemed more cruel than to be the recipent of blessings which were going to be snatched from one at any given moment. If everything in life only amounted to that, then John didn't need any more blessings coming from above.

The new day had broken just in time to find John with his arms around his dying wife, bending down to catch her last words, one last request.

"I can't," he had said, shaking his head, unable to believe what she had just told him.

Mary had smiled. "You must."

One last, affectionate slide of her cool hand down his cheek, and then she had died.

It was odd, John thought now as he watched the waves break over the rocks below him, how grief could be so starkly devoid of all other emotion. Màthair had wept a little, but he was sure he had not. He could no longer recall the immediate aftermath, only that he had slept, and slept. Like one of the recent dead.

He had buried his wife and child a few days later, down by the edge of the forest.

Màthair had merely said, after the simple service was done, "I suppose it's now time for you to leave, John. You need not worry about me. Sooner or later, I knew this day would come."

"Yes, I suppose I ought to go," John had answered tonelessly. "It's been long delayed."

A few weeks later, he had gone to join the armies.

And that had been that.

It had been five years, and all this time, he had never been able to bring himself to weep. That was the anomaly of it. The chill in his heart had solidified to ice as time went on; it had become a perfectly cold, lifeless thing, leaving him unable to feel anything deeply ever again. He had thought it was a good thing. What use would it be for him to feel, if it would only hurt him?

And yet...

What was this he was feeling now? This deep-seated pain that had somehow been raked up along with his memories? Was this not hurt? Was he not hurting now, after just a few words from Monseigneur last night? Had he not been feeling this way for days now, and all because of Sherlock?

He could not believe it. He had not felt anything like this in five years, yet it had only taken Sherlock less than five minutes to penetrate through all the numbing layers of ice around that frozen thing inside his chest to reveal his heart, still intact- not lost, or dead. It was still there inside him, beating away, slowly turning warm as the ice around it melted. It was hurting like hell now, like a thing newly born- breaking like the waves below him and filled with a desperate urge to weep.

So he did.

Amid the sound of the crashing waves, John wept. He wept for Mary and his child. He wept for himself and even for Sherlock. And once he started, he found he could not stop.

* * *

He jolted awake a few hours later to find the sun high in the sky and the song of the waves still in his ears. Absurdly, he had somehow cried himself to sleep, curled up in a corner of the tower landing like a child.

Blinking drowsily, John wondered if anyone had been looking for him. He did not think so. Otherwise, Billy would have thought to look for him here.

Slowly, he sat up against the cool stone wall and considered his situation.

He felt better. He really did. His mind was clear and his heart was lighter than it had felt in years. He'd finally managed to flush it out— years and years of pent-up anger, disappointment and pain, and found that the tears had cleansed away that tight, terrible feeling lurking within him since last night.

Who would have thought he would owe Sherlock this. Not that this was Sherlock's real intention when he had kissed him, that was for certain, he thought wryly.

What had been the man's intention then? John was not sure. Perhaps he had none. He did, after all, speak out only because John had told him to. That was a bit of a marvel, considering he had thought Sherlock incapabale of holding anything back.

And yet he had. With this, Sherlock had held back, even when John knew he had been upset enough to want to trample on everything. How much had it cost him to do so? To reveal himself to John like this, his mental armor stripped away, leaving his emotions naked?

John remembered the kiss from last night with the objectivity of hindsight, as though it had happened years ago. He remembered Sherlock's desperation, the flat despair in his voice when he murmured that there was nothing left to be said.

Was there really nothing more to be said?

A tired smile crept along John's lips as he thought about Sherlock, struggling with his jealousy. Because that was, quite simply, what it was that had driven the git into his petulant rage these several days past. It was oddly touching.

Sherlock was being absurd, John thought, if he felt he had to compete with Mary. John knew him enough by now to understand that Sherlock was being his usual maddening self when he desperately needed to feel himself the master even of John's past. Trust the man to oversimplify the matter and consider it only in terms of winning or losing. If he'd only known that Mary had never entered John's mind at all when he was snogging Sherlock last night. How would he count that? John wondered.

He knew he ought to feel horrified and guilty about it. Perhaps even offended. He had been, very briefly, last night. But now, strangely enough, he was not. It never occured to him before now that he was finally moving on.

And is that the moral of the story of the waves as well? He wondered. To go on and on, no matter how much one might feel its futility, because that is what life is all about? And the rocky cliffs are not entirely immune to the waves. Over the years, they get shaped by them, too.

All was not futile.

Outside the window, the ocean continued its ceaseless murmur. John remained where he was for a few minutes more, his mind blessedly blank, heart quiet, before he slowly hauled himself to his feet. It was time he was going.

He wasn't sure what he should do now. He was not sure if he wanted to talk to Sherlock so soon. Perhaps he ought to give them some time and some space to sort out all their tangled feelings.

The problem was solved for him when he got down from the tower.

It seemed he really would not be talking to the man for now, because Monseigneur was gone.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Maternal and infant mortality was notoriously high during the Medieval Ages. During that time, a third of all children died in early childhood. The average life expectancy of men was 35 years of age, and for women it was even less, given that many of them perished in childbed. (from Isabella, by Alison Weir)

At present, Mary's condition (postpartum uterine atony) is still a major cause of early postpartum hemorrhage which may necessitate the surgical removal of the uterus if drugs cannot induce the uterus to contract properly. John would not have this option available to him in the time period set in the story.

**Màthair**: Scottish Gaelic for "mother"


	28. Chapter 27

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 27**

* * *

**Special Thanks:** To Sher_locked_up, Beta extraordinaire.

To PlumpPushu, my French connection.

And to PopcornisDelicious, for her valuable insight into the behavior of hawks and falcons and her story .

Translations and more author's notes (and I really mean _more_) at the end.

* * *

"Monseigneur has gone to see his mother," said Lady Hudson.

"His mother?" repeated John, completely nonplussed at the thoroughly reasonable answer that Lady Hudson had supplied. He had half-expected her to say she did not know where Monseigneur had gone off to.

Lady Hudson looked up from her cards, carefully arranged on the small table in front of her. "Oh, yes, dear," she said. "The Queen Mother. Since her retirement from Court, she has taken an estate just a few hours away from here on horseback. And she has written time and again, saying Monseigneur does not visit her often enough."

"Oh," said John. "Right."

Where had he thought Monseigneur had gone to? He had to admit that all sorts of scenarios had cropped up in his head, ranging anywhere from Court to some marshy bog for Monseigneur to drown himself in, if there was such a thing as a marshy bog out here in Gaaldine. The last thing he had ever expected was Lady Hudson's reply.

"I know," continued Lady Hudson with a weary shake of her head. "Just look at him, dashing off like that without a moment's notice, with only Billy to accompany him. It's not proper, but that's just how he is. He has asked me to send everything else after him, as usual. Still, I imagine Her Majesty would be pleased to see him. He's not paid her a visit in months, and he would not let me write to her regarding the…incident in the garrison. She's not been well, you see, so he doesn't want to worry her."

John could find nothing to say to that, so he sank down in a seat across Lady Hudson and watched as she dealt patiently with the cards in front of her.

"How long will he be away?" He wanted to know.

"Oh, probably two or three days at most," said Lady Hudson, distractedly. "He's gone off for a bit of hunting, I suppose. I'm sure he will write if he plans to stay away longer than usual."

She laid a new card over the pile before her and shook her head at some hidden meaning that the arcana provided expressly for her own understanding.

"What is she like, Sh— Monseigneur's mother?" John asked after a while, his curiosity getting the upper hand, as usual. He had heard enough from Billy to know that Lady Hudson was very close to Sherlock's mother, being one of her ladies-in-waiting first before she came into Monseigneur's service, and to this day, the two kept in touch regularly through long letters.

Lady Hudson smiled. "Oh, Her Majesty is very beautiful. I dare say Monseigneur takes after her in terms of features. The cheekbones, especially. The King is the splitting image of their father, but Monseigneur is very much his mother's son."

"Temperamentally as well?" John wanted to know.

At those words, Lady Hudson looked up at him. "No. At least, not in the way that Monseigneur is...severe."

John let out a soft snort— part amusement, part grudging admiration at Lady Hudson's tact. Severe was a tasteful way to describe the man. If John had his way, he'd say Monseigneur was abrasive as a hair shirt.

"He's been giving you a hard time, hasn't he?" Lady Hudson asked, full of sympathy. "Not to worry, dear, he does that to everyone. It's just his way. It will pass."

She turned over another card and continued, "He has to be hard, you know."

John blinked. "Does he?" he asked.

Lady Hudson shrugged. "He's royalty, and he lives by a different code of conduct and a different way of life," she said. "He is not, and can never be, one of us, my dear."

"And just because he is royalty, does it mean that he is beyond reproach?"

"Oh, never that," said Lady Hudson, smiling gently. "But, as his people, we must admit that we are at his mercy. There is no hiding the fact that he can be severe, but then what lord isn't? And I've known quite a few. It is a mistake to equate Monseigneur's severity with unjustness or intentional cruelty. I can assure you that he is neither of those, and whatever he does is for good reason. Oh yes, you will laugh, John, as others before you have laughed. We live in an age where the code of chivalry cloaks a man in a genteel facade, but underneath it, a Prince must be hard. He must be watchful of opportunity. He has to be strong, for our sake. In many ways he is the only one standing between us and the world, which can be a very cruel place to the unprotected and defenseless. A Prince cannot be weak without that weakness becoming a detriment to his people. Monseigneur was raised with this foremost in mind, and the lessons he was forced to learn at a tender age were especially harsh."

John crossed his arms over his chest and looked down contemplatively at the cards laid out before Lady Hudson. "I understand that," he finally said. "I really do. I'm a soldier, after all. I'm used to harshness, and harsh lords. Only, I need time to get used to all of this, submitting to somebody for the rest of my life."

Lady Hudson's gaze suddenly turned pitying. "Oh, John," she said. "Is that really how you see it?"

John stared at her. "In what other way can we view this relationship that we have with him?" he asked.

"Well, I suppose it will sound strange," she said. "Of course, you're bound to look at it in a different way, but the way I see it, it's more like a pact between husband and wife. There is a level of trust, a kind of devotion involved here that elevates this from the mere ties that bind a lord and his servant. We've sworn our lives to Monseigneur, and he, in turn, is bound to protect and provide for us. And though he may not show it most of the time, he does know how to look after what's his."

John gave her a brittle smile. "Yes, well," he said, "I'm not used to having anyone looking after me."

"Of course not. You're a soldier," replied Lady Hudson, not unkindly. "But you haven't been to Court yet. Trust me, love, you will need his protection when you get there."

John stared at her for a moment. Was it really that bad? He wondered.

"You don't miss Court life then," he observed.

"Oh, not one bit," said Lady Hudson cheerfully.

John shook his head and looked away. "He is so different from anyone I've ever known," he found himself murmuring. "He's arrogant and difficult and not an easy man to grasp."

_And he's just fucking brilliant..._

Lady Hudson's smile widened. "No, he's not easy to grasp, but then I suppose we wouldn't want him to be anything otherwise, would we?" she said before turning her attention back to the cards.

* * *

With Monseigneur gone, everyone at the Lair seemed to let out a collective breath.

The next day saw John drawn into a carole— a group dance, with the Lady Molly and a few maids she had managed to waylay for a while from their duties. The minstrels that Monseigneur had left behind provided the music— a fast, jaunty tune that had all the dancers skipping briskly through their moves, incurring one mistake after the other until they lost the rhythm of the dance completely and the little circle finally broke apart, laughing.

"So that's the carole," explained Molly, breathlessly. "It's called a _ronde_ in Gondalian and it's a popular court dance. It's one of the more proper dances, anyway."

"Wait, hold on," interjected John, intrigued. "One of the more _proper_ dances? Are there any to the contrary?"

Molly giggled. "There are, but I'm not supposed to know anything about them," she said enigmatically.

John shook his head wonderingly. "You never cease to amaze me, my lady. And pray where does one encounter such improper dances? In the streets, I suppose?"

"Yes, in the streets during festivals and celebrations, and in the late-night masquerade balls held in several of the palaces," replied Molly, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. "There will be many such affairs during the week before and after the royal wedding. It's originally a Gondalian tradition. They are very exclusive, and I am certain I shall not be allowed to attend."

"Private masquerade balls?" echoed John, interested despite himself.

Molly nodded, and a dimple suddenly showed in her cheek. "They say one can encounter just about anyone there, from the King down to the lowliest courtier and lady of rank," she whispered confidentially. "They also say you can get to dance with anyone. _Anyone_. Not in a group dance, but just the two of you. You'll never know who you're dancing with unless your partners would choose to reveal themselves to you. So you see, they are _highly_ improper, and so very romantic."

"I see," murmured John, wondering, as was his habit lately, if Monseigneur ever attended these gatherings. Somehow he doubted it.

"I'm sure Lady Hudson won't be giving me her permission," said Molly wistfully. "I've never been to one before. I've only ever heard of them."

"And where on earth did you even get wind of this?" demanded John with mock severity. "What would Monseigneur say if he finds out?"

"I'm not telling," said Molly with a laugh. "And you did not hear this from me."

"Fair enough," said John, smiling.

"Only, just imagine," continued Molly, eyes shining, "how it would be if one got to dance with Monseigneur in one of those soirees."

John's lips thinned and he asked quite casually, "Does he ever attend these things?"

Molly shook her head regretfully and said, "Even if he does, what difference would it make? We won't be there to see him."

"There is that," said John softly, "so why even trouble ourselves with it?"

Molly sighed. "Oh, John," she said, her tone half amused, half complaining. "You can at least allow a girl her fantasies."

"He'd be a handful," John found himself saying, not necessarily to Molly, "whoever's going to be saddled with him is deserving of pity more than anything else."

Molly tilted her head. "Not unless he cares for her," she replied.

"Is he even capable of that?"

"Yes," said Molly with quiet and absolute conviction.

Before John could think to press her further, Lady Hudson appeared, looking harried.

"Good heavens, what are you doing, all of you?" she burst out, stopping abruptly in front of them. To the maids, she said, "T'is barely midday; get back to work, the three of you. John, you will need to pack at least two days' worth of clothes. Make sure you include something presentable. Get one of the maids to help you select your garments. Oh, and before you do so, can you please run this message to Eustace for me? Tell him Monseigneur wants Azrail ready as soon as possible for the journey to his mother's castle. Goodness, I'm all in a tizzy from the letters I've just received. Molly, I shall leave you to take care of things here for a day or so. You need not worry, I've already given Mary Turner my instructions for the kitchens for the next few days, and Dimmock will be here to take care of Monseigneur's affairs."

"My lady?" said Molly incredulously, not sure she had heard right.

"We'll just be away for a night, two at most," said Lady Hudson. "The Queen Mother has summoned me and John for a visit."

* * *

Eustace, Monseigneur's chief falcon-bearer, was a big, jolly man with a no-nonsense attitude about him that had struck a chord with John almost from the very start of their acquaintance. Now, as always, he did not mince words as he said, "Sorry, mate. I'm afraid I can't oblige with Monseigneur's request. Azrail is ill."

John frowned as he turned to stare at Azrail sitting on her perch. Well, now that Eustace mentioned it, Azrail did seem a bit listless, her usually haughty mien altered by a slightly drooping head.

"It's nothing alarming, to be sure," Eustace said easily, "but she's not been herself since yesterday. If I don't know any better, I'd say she's pining for Monseigneur. It's been a while since he's last taken her outdoors, and now may not be the right time for it. I will need to keep her under observation."

"Do they even do that?" asked John, intrigued.

"Do what?"

"Pine for their masters."

"You know what, John?" said Eustace. "I've once had a bird who nearly killed himself climbing a flight of stairs as a fledgling just to be near me. Once you've been in this profession long enough, you're bound to see everything."

They were ready within the hour, and after an early dinner they set off, minus Azrail.

John was on horseback, accompanying the small carriage that carried Lady Hudson along with their trunks, and gifts for Monseigneur's mother: pipes of wine, baskets of fresh fruit and sea bream, sweetmeats and other delicacies.

In the fine weather, the journey was a short one, yet it did carry them away from the coast and into woodland territory. The Queen Mother's estate was situated in one the finest hunting grounds in all of Gaaldine, and even as he caught his first glimpse of the pretty, turreted castle, as from a scene in a fairy tale, John could already appreciate that the dowager queen was a passionate gardener: the neatly kept grounds of the castle stretched out before them, filled with flower beds. At this time of the year, the roses were in full bloom, and their perfume wafted toward John, heady with a voluptuous fragrance.

Somebody came running up to them as John was helping Lady Hudson down from the carriage. Amid the grooms taking charge of the horses and the carriage, Billy appeared, grinning.

"We didn't know you were coming!" he said in surprised delight.

"Hi," returned John, smiling. "We didn't know either until a few hours ago."

"Monseigneur must be informed then," Billy said. "We just came back from a morning hunt. Where's Azrail?"

As Billy looked about him for any sign of the hawk, John said a bit dryly, "She can't come because she's ill. Eustace has sent one of Monseigneur's falcons instead."

Billy's face fell. "Oh?" he said anxiously.

"Nothing serious," said John, shrugging it off. "Tell Monseigneur he's left his heart behind and now she's pining for him."

* * *

They were taken directly to see the dowager queen in her private apartments.

Amid the splendid tapestries lining her chamber, the Queen Mother stood, regally straight and attired almost completely in white. She was a tall woman, willowy with dark hair turning to a dignified grey tucked away in an elegant headdress. Her features were locked behind a slim mask, snow white and almost indistinguishable from the color of her alabaster skin.

She accepted Lady Hudson's deep curtsey, followed by a brief embrace that managed to convey an abundance of affection despite the brevity of the gesture. "Ma chère sœur." Her voice was deep, her accent a rolling, musical wave of sound clearly originating from other shores. "I trust the journey has not been very tiring?"

"Oh, not at all, Madame," answered Lady Hudson in glad tones. She turned to John. "This is John Watson, Your Majesty. He is Monseigneur's healer from the Angrian Highlands."

The Queen Mother extended a white, still hand and John bent over it as he had been instructed by Lady Hudson. When he straightened up, he saw that the woman's eyes— a deeper blue compared to Monseigneur's but no less piercing— were on his person. What she saw evidently satisfied her, for she said, "Sit, please."

They sat on plush, richly upholstered stools. "We shall wait for my son to arrive," said the Queen Mother calmly. "I trust his page would have informed him of your presence here by now."

Lady Hudson said worriedly, "I am not sure if it was wise to have kept our visit from him."

"Nonsense, Mary," said Monseigneur's mother, her tone suddenly chilly and incisive. "I shall answer for it. My little surprise is nothing compared to his. Do you know how my fair son greeted me when he arrived yesterday? He embraced me. For nearly ten minutes. There were no words, but he was trembling all over. Thank God he waited until we were alone so there was nobody to see it. Ten minutes, Mary."

"Oh?" Lady Hudson said very faintly, her eyes wide and round with dismay. "I never even noticed that he was upset. Of course, he had gone off so early yesterday. John, do you know anything about this?"

John shook his head woodenly, aware that the Queen Mother's gaze was boring into him.

"Since then," the Queen Mother continued, never taking her eyes off John, "he has persisted in denying that anything is amiss. It is most distressing. As he has refused to divulge the matter to me, he certainly has no grounds in objecting to my asking you both over to satisfy my curiosity."

"Oh," said Lady Hudson, flustered. "I don't even know what would have upset him so. He's really not told you anything, Madame?"

"Not a word," said the Queen Mother. "And if the King had not written to me weeks ago, I should not have heard of the existence of John Watson at all."

John watched as Lady Hudson twisted her hands haplessly in front of her. "Forgive me for not writing to you about John, Your Majesty. Monseigneur has told me that he shall be informing you about John himself," she said.

"Perhaps he will," Her Majesty replied, "for here he is now."

The doors were thrown open even as she spoke, and in strode Monseigneur, still in his hunting clothes. John wondered when he was ever going to get used to the sight of the man suddenly appearing before him like this, superbly dressed in black silk and leather. But Monseigneur did not even so much as glance at his direction. He strode over to his mother and stopped to kiss the hand held up languidly before him, bowing from the waist and keeping his entire upper body straight as he did so. It was quite beautiful.

"Je n'avais pas réalisé que nous aurions de la compagnie, Mère," said Monseigneur as he straightened up.

What with John's elementary grasp of Gondalian, the rapid words slipped by him easily without registering much.

Monseigneur's mother replied quite pleasantly, "Ah bien. Maintenant tu le sais, mon Chéri. Je n'avais pas eu la chance de parler directement à Dame Hudson depuis si longtemps et j'ai cru comprendre que John Watson serait un de vos nouveaux amis. Comme tu le sais, je souhaite de faire connaissance avec tous tes amis."

"Ce ne sont que mes hommes, Mère." The words were spoken softly, yet they carried a hint of hardness within them.

"Oui, ils le sont et maintenant, ils sont aussi mes invités."

John could barely understand the conversation, but it was quite clear that mother and son were having a very polite argument in front of them right now. It was also quite clear to John that Monseigneur's mother was a formidable woman who could thoroughly unnerve Monseigneur with a few calm words.

"Vous auriez pu me le demander et je les aurais fait venir par moi-même," said Monseigneur, voice tightly controlled.

"L'aurais-tu vraiment fait, bel fitz?" returned his mother, pleased. "Étrangement, je ne le crois pas, mais dorénavant je me rappellerai de te le demander. Pour l'instant, laisse moi seule avec John Watson."

Monseigneur turned away from her abruptly, his face unreadable. It was clear that he had lost the argument. John stared as Lady Hudson awkwardly got to her feet and curtseyed to the Queen Mother, murmuring her excuses.

"I can imagine that my dear friend will find some rest before supper to be beneficial," the Queen Mother explained to John on Lady Hudson's behalf. "She's got a hip, and so have I."

John looked up to see Monseigneur's pale gaze fixed upon him for the first time. _Go ahead then. Tell her and break her heart,_ his gaze seemed to say_._

Then Monseigneur turned away and headed out the door with Lady Hudson in tow.

"You must excuse my son's behavior," said the Queen Mother, a tremor in her voice belying her look of outward calm. "I find it exceedingly puzzling myself. It seems the older he gets, the worse his conduct becomes. He was not like this, as a boy. He'd never think to keep a secret from me. Sometimes I do not know what sort of creature he's turned out to be."

John turned to her in surprise, but it seemed the Queen Mother had recovered from her momentary lapse.

"My son, the King, has written to me of your service to Monseigneur," she continued. "The King said you helped rid Monseigneur of a fever. Tell me, is that all there is to it?"

"No," said John at length. "That's not all. He could not tell you, and the King could not tell you, because they fear it would upset you greatly."

He saw her gather herself in. "If they cannot, then you must tell me," she insisted.

John licked his lips and began the story just as he had for the King, so many weeks before. Carefully, he said, "Monseigneur was poisoned."

The Queen Mother held up her hand. "I already know everything about that," she said, her lips compressed in a thin, harsh line. "The King had thought to inform me of everything, and had implored me to keep quiet about it as you work at a plan with Monseigneur to capture whoever is responsible.

"You must not think that I am not deeply in your debt, John Watson, for saving my son's life. I pray that you will forgive this one last intrusion into your patience and charity. I think you will agree with me when I say that my son's erratic behavior from yesterday was not due to anything related to the attempt on his life. I think it has more to do with you."

John swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat and said nothing. Truly formidable, he thought. She had effortlessly seen through his planned evasion of the subject.

"I know him, you see," she said. "I know when he's deeply into one of his infatuations. I knew it immediately when he refused to look at you the entire time he was here."

John forced himself to continue looking at her steadily. It was apparent that Monseigneur took after her not just in looks.

"We will not be discussing the right or wrong of it. Experience has shown me that it is quite useless arguing with my son about it. My only question is, what do you want from him in return, John?" she asked. "Forgive me if I may seem direct. Let us not fool ourselves. There had been others before you, and all of them, without exception, had wanted something from Monseigneur: money, power, prestige, his royal patronage or perhaps all of these. I can assure you now that none of his previous suitors had been able to take advantage of him. Perhaps we can avoid the painful aftermath now if you are to tell me quite plainly what it is you desire from him."

God, the artful brutality of the woman's words. No wonder she could bring even Monseigneur to heel so effortlessly. John could feel the hairs on his nape stand on end even as he felt a coil of anger deep inside him.

"I..."

What did he want? That was easy enough to answer now. He knew what he wanted, but could he bring himself to say it?

_I don't want anything from your son, Your Majesty. I want _him.

John wondered briefly what Monseigneur's mother would say to that.

But of course he could not say it. And he knew he could not be angry with a woman who was only trying to protect her son.

John cleared his throat, tried again, and the words that eventually came out of his mouth astonished even himself, "I'm not a suitor, and it's not a question of what I want, Your Majesty. It's more to do with what I _don't_ want."

"Oh? Pray what is that?"

"I don't want him to come to any harm," said John evenly. "I don't want him to die."

A long minute of silence elapsed. The woman before him was so still that John half-thought she had turned to marble. Finally, she said, quite simply, "I see. That is all I want to know. Thank you."

"There is one more thing," said John.

The Queen Mother turned her gaze back at him.

"Your little boy," continued John, 'he's still there, deep down inside the man Monseigneur has become. Back when he was delirious with fever from the poison, he called for you. Nobody but you."

She continued to gaze at him silently, her eyes filling, yet the tears never spilled.

_An amazing woman_, thought John.

After she had recovered herself sufficiently, the Queen Mother said, "Give me your arm, John, and let us go down to supper."

* * *

They had a small, intimate supper in the ornate dining hall. Through it all, Monseigneur's mother kept up the conversation as though nothing had happened; she spoke to Lady Hudson of concerns for the King's upcoming wedding and of the meeting with her future daughter-in-law. Turning to John, she asked graciously if he would need anything from her gardens. Her roses were much sought after in the making of perfumes and medicine and, indeed, had formed part of their meal as well. John enjoyed the rose petal bread very much.

Monseigneur, who received nothing from his mother other than a curt, "I will need to see you after supper", stared at John with inscrutable eyes and a slight tilt of his mouth as his mother touched John lightly on the arm to ask him if he knew of a good remedy for troublesome hips.

It seemed John had passed his mother's interview with flying colors. Monseigneur ought to have known the outcome of any situation thrust upon his John would be favorable. He had to admit he had been a little bit worried.

Everything was coming along according to plan, then.

* * *

John was shown to his room after supper, and for a moment, he simply stood there in the comfortably furnished room contemplating what to do for the rest of the evening. After his talk with Monseigneur's mother, there was no chance he'd be able to sleep early tonight. He'd be sure to go over their conversation again and again in his head.

Oh, but wait.

He had been given a sumptuous room with an outdoor terrace overlooking the rose gardens. Wonderful. Opening the terrace door, he stepped out and breathed in the sweetly scented night air.

Almost to be expected, the view outside was perfectly breathtaking.

If only Molly were here to see this, he thought, glancing about him bemusedly. This was more along her idea of a romantic setting, complete with a full moon and a sea of stars overhead, with fragrant roses and a terrace with creeping vines along the walls for a lover to scale. In fact, the only thing missing from the scenario was a Prince Charming—

Just then, a figure passed just below his balcony, heading toward the gardens, and John felt his heart begin to beat stiflingly in his chest as he realized who it was. It was too dark for John to make out his features, but he would know the man's stride anywhere.

He thought Monseigneur would be holed up in his mother's apartments for hours, answering endless questions, but no. Here he was, passing below John's terrace and heading toward the gardens, his usual pace slowed to a graceful stroll.

John watched him go by, half thinking of calling out, but his voice was locked deep inside his throat. Despite all alarm bells sounding within his mind, he knew he would not be able to hold himself back from following him.

Climbing down the wall was easy enough, and before he knew it, John was following silently a decent distance behind as Monseigneur made his way leisurely to the gardens.

Monseigneur did not seem to have a particular route in mind. He passed several trimmed rose bushes before stopping abruptly, contemplating nothing in particular. John paused a few feet away, partially hidden in the shadows of an alcove.

"It's no use hiding, John," drawled Monseigneur. "I know it's you."

After a moment more, John emerged rather sheepishly from his hiding place.

"Well now," said Monseigneur as he turned around to face John, his voice coolly sardonic. "No matter how far away we may be, it seems as though we are forever running into each other. What can it possibly all mean?"

John strained to see Sherlock's features, but the moon was behind him, throwing his face into shadow. Anyway, that damned mask would probably be in the way.

_We're not far away enough from each other_, he thought indistinctly. _Perhaps from now on no amount of distance can ever truly separate us. We'll end up finding each other, whether we like it or not._

It was a mad thought, treacherous and perhaps deeply unfortunate if it should ever come true, but it was a beautiful, moonlit night, the scent of the roses was getting to him, and John was already past caring.

"I thought you were with your mother," said John.

Monseigneur gave a small but eloquent shrug. "Apparently you did such a good job explaining things to her that she merely gave me an embrace," he said, "and wonderful though that may be, it can't last more than a few minutes. I suppose I should thank you for making it so much easier on me. So what did you tell her?"

"There wasn't much to tell. She already knew of the attempt on your life," replied John.

"I meant about us, John."

"Is there anything between us that warrants telling?"

"You tell me," said Monseigneur dryly.

John ignored the barbed comment and abruptly changed course. "Why did you leave like that?" he asked softly.

A pause, then Monseigneur said, voice weary, "Oh, I see. What do you want me to say, John? Do you want some ringing confession to the effect that I left because I can't stand the thought of seeing you in the clear light of day as belonging to someone else? That's a tad overdramatic, don't you think?"

"Not as dramatic as being dragged out here to talk to your mother. I don't know how it all came about though I won't be surprised if you've somehow arranged for it to be so."

This was met with abrupt silence from Monseigneur.

John tilted his head. "What you just said. Did you really think that?"

"There's nothing more to be said, John."

"No."

John shook his head as though to clear it, feeling as though everything was unreal, part of a dream. God, they weren't making any sense, both of them. John felt as though any control he had of the situation was gradually slipping, melting away in the soft moonlight.

"Then why have you followed me here, John?" a slight edge in Monseigneur's voice now.

"It's certainly not through any conscious design of mine," said John. "Perhaps it's fate. At least, I think Lady Hudson might say it's so."

A sneer in Monseigneur's voice: "I shudder to think so."

_There will be more coming from that mouth_, thought John with the same reckless resignation. John knew that Sherlock was pre-empting him, cutting him off before the hurt became too much to bear. John knew he was an inch away from a verbal lashing. Perhaps he even knew what Sherlock was going to say.

And John would have to stop him, to shut Sherlock up before he could wreak further damage.

So John did just that.

"I've already conceded defeat, what _more_ do you want—" was all Monseigneur could say before John was suddenly there in front of him, filling his vision, crowding into his personal space. Before he could jerk away, John's hand was on the side of his face, another sliding to catch at his nape.

"_Enough,"_ John whispered roughly before he leaned in to claim Monseigneur's lips with his own.

John's kiss was simple, chaste— his lips firm against Monseigneur's mouth, gone soft with surprise— yet it carried with it that special realization that something irreversible had happened at last.

It lasted only a few seconds, and John drew away to look carefully at Monseigneur's stunned face.

"_Oh_," breathed Monseigneur and fell silent. For the first time in a long, long while, he had nothing else to say.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** A **cilice** was originally a garment or undergarment made of coarse cloth or animal hair (**hair shirt**) worn close to the skin to "mortify the flesh". It was used in some religious traditions to induce discomfort or pain as a sign of repentance and atonement. In contact with skin, the stiff bristles of animal hair can break off, irritating the skin and inducing sores. (Source: Wikipedia)

Sources for an understanding of dance in Europe in the Middle Ages are limited and fragmentary, being composed of some interesting depictions in paintings and illuminations, a few musical examples of what may be dances, and scattered allusions in literary texts. The **carole**, or **ronde**, is the most documented form of dance for the period. (Source: Wikipedia)

The recipe for **rose petal bread** (which uses rose water simmered from the petals) can be found at Wind Rose Fiber Studio. There is an interesting entry in this blog, explaining the origin of the term **"upper crust".** Today we often use it to refer to socially important people. In medieval feasts, the first course served was a loaf of artfully decorated bread. The decorated top crust of the bread was carved off first and served to the most important noble at the high table.

Lady Hudson's conversation about Princes is lifted from a detail in Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall.

Yes, we know, we know. Sher_locked_up and I discussed this at length. There are some points in Lady Hudson's and the Queen Mother's words which may make us modern-day ladies cringe, but let's bear in mind that almost a thousand years separate us from the people in this story. Their life and times were different from ours; their words and thoughts would have to be different as well. But I believe some things do remain constant: love in its various forms, for one.

* * *

**Translations:**

Ma chère sœur— my dear sister

_Mummy and Sherlock's conversation :_

Sherlock: Je n'avais pas réalisé que nous aurions de la compagnie, Mère.

(I did not realize we will be having company, Mother.)

Mummy: Ah bien. Maintenant tu le sais, mon Chéri. Je n'avais pas eu la chance de parler directement à Dame Hudson depuis si longtemps et j'ai cru comprendre que John Watson serait un de vos nouveaux amis. Comme tu le sais, je souhaite de faire connaissance avec tous tes amis.

(Ah, well. Now you know, dearest. I've not spoken directly to Lady Hudson for such a long time, and John Watson, I've been made to understand, is a new friend of yours. As you know, I wish to be acquainted with all your friends.)

S: Ce ne sont que mes hommes, Mère.

(They're my people, Mother.)

Mummy: Oui, ils le sont et maintenant, ils sont aussi mes invités.

(Yes, they are, and now they are also my guests.)

S: Vous auriez pu me le demander et je les aurais fait venir par moi-même.

(You could have asked me and I could have sent for them myself.)

Mummy: L'aurais-tu vraiment fait, mon cher garçon? Étrangement, je ne le crois pas, mais dorénavant je me rappellerai de te le demander. Pour l'instant, laisse moi seule avec John Watson.

(Would you have, fair son? Somehow, I thought not, but I shall remember to ask you in future. For now, leave me with John Watson.)

During Medieval times, royal parents usually address their sons as _**bel fitz**_, meaning "fair son". Fair, in this case, was used in the context of being good looking, not blond. (Source: Isabella, by Alison Weir)


	29. Chapter 28

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 28**

* * *

This chapter is dedicated to **Fallen-SaintSam**, entirely beloved friend and truly an inspiration.

* * *

**Special Thanks:** To Sher_locked_up, my Beta extraordinaire.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

And if I've built this fortress around your heart,  
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire,  
Then let me build a bridge, for I cannot fill the chasm,  
And let me set the battlements on fire.

-Sting, _"Fortress Around Your Heart"_

* * *

_"Oh,"_ breathed Monseigneur.

John licked his lips. "Sherlock, I—"

He got no farther than that before Monseigneur's mouth was upon his in a bruising kiss. Those lips crushed against his felt lush, familiar. Welcome.

A low moan— his or Sherlock's?— and John surrendered his mouth to Monseigneur's questing tongue.

Oh God, this.

John had never realized how much he'd missed this slow plundering of mouths; an ungentle, wordless battle waged by tongues. Until now, he'd never really known how much he'd craved for this.

In the quiet stillness of the Queen Mother's rose gardens, with the moon as sole witness, a moment of magic.

It could not have been more than a minute, yet they were both panting when they broke apart, as though the kiss had made them forget how to breathe.

"John." Monseigneur's voice was a low rumble of sound, thick with emotion. "You've chosen me then. After everything that's happened. And all the while I thought you'd fly from me."

"Oh, like the way you did?" John said, laughter in his voice. "Anyway, does this look like I'm running from you?"

"You've run after me," said Monseigneur. His face was in shadow, but John could detect a subtle change in his voice. What it meant, he wasn't sure.

Not knowing how to answer Monseigneur's question, John asked one of his own, "How did you know her name was Mary? I don't think I ever mentioned it to anyone."

A pause as Monseigneur tilted his head, then he said, "No, you didn't. And your unwillingness to say the name was what gave it all away. It may not have been an entirely conscious act on your part, but in a household with six Marys, you've successfully managed to evade ever calling anyone by that name. Lady Hudson is easy enough to circumvent, and you've taken to calling Mary Turner "antaidh" if you needed to address her at all, but Mary the Younger. Now there's your challenge. Of course you could have called her Lady Hooper as befitting her station, but nobody ever calls her that. Your reasons for giving Molly her nickname were both chivalrous and purely personal, the personal aspect easily overlooked in favor of your obvious gallantry. Nobody realized what the name meant to you, but then nobody was looking for that one clue to your person except me."

John bit his lower lip as he gazed at the enigma before him. "Amazing," he finally said. "Just bloody amazing."

Monseigneur said nothing, although John thought he detected a faint twitch of the man's lips to indicate that he smiled. Monseigneur dipped his head fractionally until their foreheads touched, but John kept his head down.

"The answer is no, by the way," said John softly. He suppressed a smile of his own as he felt Monseigneur freeze ever so minutely.

"No," John repeated, carefully. "You can't ask me to cut Mary out of my heart. She's there to stay. She's a part of me, Sherlock. You'll just have to deal with it."

"Now why would I ask you to do that?" said Monseigneur, voice was so soft it seemed almost on the point of melting. "I don't care who peoples your heart so long as you acknowledge me to be its rightful sovereign."

The kiss that followed was different: forceful, possessive. It was exactly the type that John had found alarming; exactly the type that he couldn't get enough of, now. He felt hands, sliding down his chest, his back.

_"Sherlock—!"_ a startled groan of protest as John felt Monseigneur's hand brush lightly against the hardness between his legs. Now this felt different. Entirely different from everything that came before. He made to push that maddening hand away but Monseigneur merely flattened his palm against John's developing erection, the better to feel him. All of him.

"Now," said Monseigneur, reveling in the sudden hitch in John's breathing. "You're ready for me now, aren't you, John?"

Mouth only a scant inch from John's ear, Monseigneur said in a voice low and rough with renewed authority, "We can't risk anyone coming upon us like this, can we? Certainly not one of my mother's people. Back to your room then, John. You will unlock your door, and then you will undress and wait for me in bed. Go now."

With a final brush of his lips against John's ear, Monseigneur pushed him away, leaving John to make his way slowly back to his room, his steps staggering, a bit uneven, as though he were drunk. When he paused to look behind him uncertainly, Monseigneur was gone.

He could not remember climbing back to the terrace of his room, but he must have done so. Next thing he knew, he was doing exactly what he was told: sliding the deadbolt from his door. His hands were shaking.

He couldn't believe this.

He couldn't believe that this was actually, finally happening. Excitement warred with the usual crippling uncertainty as he took to pacing in front of his bed, the covers neatly turned down for the night.

God, he couldn't deny that he wanted this. He'd known somehow that this was going to happen, the natural endpoint of his arrival here. Had he not felt it the entire time? The delicious sense of anticipation, of satisfaction that bordered on triumph at seeing Monseigneur again after he'd left him at the Lair.

Journeys end with lovers meeting.

John glanced at the open, inviting bed, heaped with pillows, and saw his nightshift lying there, waiting for him.

Undress. Right.

He had to…

He shivered as he pulled his shirt off over his head and felt gooseflesh start over the skin of his arms. It was not even cold in the room. The enormity of what he was going to do, of what Monseigneur was planning to do with him, finally sank in as he took off his trousers.

Oh God.

For a moment, John sat on the edge of his bed, stunned as he stared at his bare thighs, his legs; coarse, ungainly things that they were.

What was he doing?

What was he _thinking?_

He shivered again as though somebody had doused him with cold water. He thought about diving back into his discarded clothes then and finally decided to don his nightshift instead. Meanwhile, his panicked mind assaulted him with arguments.

_Jesus Christ, John, seriously. What the hell? One mad moment in a rose garden with that man and you've fallen right under his spell like a young whelp bewitched for the first time. _

John bit his lip hard and tried to shut out the voice of reason, but it wasn't quite finished with him yet.

_Now that you think of it, everything just fits too perfectly, doesn't it, John? Right down to the roses. Oh God, the roses ought to have been the giveaway. He does love to be dramatic, doesn't he? How wet behind the ears can you be to fail to see right through his act? He's led you by the nose all along, all the way here. He's whetted your appetite by all that drama to the point that he has but to snap his fingers and you'll come flying to him without a single thought that this— all of this— may very well be a trap…_

John looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening. He'd forgotten the door.

He watched, aghast, as the door opened a fraction and Monseigneur slid into the room, noiseless as a dark shadow. Monseigneur closed the door and slid the bolt home, then turned to rest his back against it for a moment, his gaze already proprietary, gloating as it settled on John who continued to sit, seemingly paralyzed, on the edge of the bed.

Monseigneur stalked over to him the moment he caught the look on John's face. He said firmly, "It's too late now, John. There's no going back. You've already made the decision to be _mine."_

Before John could think to move, Monseigneur was upon him, leaning his weight into John as he pressed against him, between his legs. One hand was on his shoulder to restrain him, the other sliding to catch at the back of John's head, roughly tilting his face up for Monseigneur's mouth, as though that was the solution to everything.

John broke away from the kiss to gasp, "Wait. Sherlock, just. Wait. Hold on for a bit—"

"No," growled Monseigneur. "We've tarried long enough. This is the longest I've ever waited for anyone and I am done waiting, John. I am done. This thing between us, it's now or never."

"Answer me this first," said John, drawing in breath raggedly, the light in his eyes clear and fierce. "This. All of this. It's pure textbook romance, isn't it?"

Monseigneur said nothing and merely stared down at John, his fingers still bunched into John's hair at the back of his head.

"The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption," continued John, betrayal gradually seeping into his voice. "Kisses in a rose garden in the moonlight. Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail— layer upon layer of your schemes— until you have me wrapped around your finger. How much of this is real, Sherlock?"

Monseigneur's smile, when it finally came, was an unexpected, warm caress. "Well done, John," he said softly. "Oh, well done."

He bent to capture John's mouth again with his, and when John turned away, outraged, disgusted, hands clenching tight against Monseigneur's chest, Monseigneur said, "So you saw through it all at the very last moment. Congratulations. I was wondering whether you'd be this easy to win over, and once again you've proven me wrong. You're definitely worth it, John. Worth the wait. Worth all the planning."

"Sherlock," grated John in warning. Soon he would be furious. Already, his hands were turning to hard fists against Monseigneur's chest, ready to throw him off, to pound into him. "You're playing dirty. You're not being fair!"

"My dear John," said Monseigneur, restraining John as best he could. "Make no mistake: everything is fair in love and war."

"Get off me!"

"Except you've got it wrong," continued Monseigneur, his words clear, incisive. "You've got it all wrong, John."

He felt John's fists waver ever so slightly against his chest. "Wrong, how?" John bit out.

"Manipulation was there, certainly," conceded Monseigneur, "except you've mistaken my motives. This isn't just a ploy to get you to submit, John. This is courtship. Hasn't anyone ever made love to you before, you idiot?"

Monseigneur stared down at John's wide eyes and murmured, "Apparently not."

"You…you're..._what?"_ said John, dumbfounded, unable to believe his ears.

"Ah, my poor innocent," said Monseigneur, shaking his head. "Do you mean to say that all this time, it's never even _occurred _to you that I was courting you?"

John's mouth worked silently for a few seconds. He had been struck speechless by Monseigneur's declaration. Monseigneur watched him for a moment in silent amusement, feeling John's fists loosen in irresolution on his chest before he finally took pity and claimed John's mouth with his, softly now, as he felt the last of John's resolve fall away like a discarded garment.

Ah, to be able to taste the very first, real moment of John's surrender. Exquisite.

"This is all real, John. Everything that I feel for you," murmured Monseigneur against his mouth.

Never easily convinced, John turned his mouth away and asked, "Why are you doing this? Courting me?"

Monseigneur leveled him a look; this stubborn, delicious man. "Haven't I made myself clear in the dungeons, or have you forgotten already what I've told you?" he asked. "I want your heart, John. It's mine."

John's mouth thinned ominously. "My captive heart, so you said. What do you plan to do with it?"

_The answer is easy enough, _John thought bitterly_. He'll cut it out of my chest and throw it away, or crush it to a million little pieces and dabble with the bits the way he does with things for his damnable experiments—_

Monseigneur's answer came as a complete surprise to John yet again: "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one. Yours will just have to do for me, then. Mon cœur."

The words took Monseigneur by surprise as well. It was only after he voiced his declaration that Monseigneur realized that perhaps he meant every word of it, too.

* * *

John, half sitting, half lying down on the bed, cushioned against the small mountain of feather pillows as Monseigneur leaned over him, telling him impossible things. He told John about how he had waited for him, time and again throughout these past weeks: that first time, when Donovan had knocked John out with her boomerang, a very close call. Monseigneur, with the poison already starting its slow, deadly work deep inside his body, had gone personally to see John in the tent that held him and his Angrian compatriot. Such disappointment to find him still unconscious, and a deep-seated worry that Sally's boomerang might have inflicted a far graver injury to John than initially thought.

Then there was that time Monseigneur was recovering, when John had insisted on his honoring Lestrade's promise to set him free. That one-hour ultimatum Monseigneur had set for John to think things over had seemed more like an eternity as Monseigneur sat in his tent, a book propped before him and unable to read a single word from it.

After that, the episode in the dungeons— those endless minutes when John had stood at the threshold of the door, merely looking in and not making the mistake of entering...yet. And now, after another bout of agonized waiting, when Monseigneur was fairly certain that he'd lost John, here they were, suddenly. Finally. Could John really not understand the torture he'd put Monseigneur through all these weeks?

Monseigneur could see John about to lose the fight and give in; still, he clung on tenaciously to a thread of doubt as he said, "You made your mother summon me here, after scaring her like that with your terrifyingly long embrace. That didn't look at all like you're admitting defeat."

"Believe you me, I did, but I wasn't going down without a fight," said Monseigneur. "I made you chase me, John; I made myself the lure. I wasn't sure you'd bite though. But at that point, I was desperate enough to try anything. I figured I had nothing left to lose, if I'd lost you already."

There was silence for a time.

"You're an idiot, do you know that?" John said rather tentatively, and Monseigneur knew then.

He knew that the fight was gone from John.

"A brilliant one," amended Monseigneur, moving in swiftly now to claim what was his.

* * *

It was a night for kisses, this time deep and harsh from Monseigneur, allowing no further resistance. He broke the hungry kiss long enough to growl, "Disobedient to the last, aren't we? I told you to undress, John."

"Yes, well, this...this is one way of undressing," said John, sounding a bit breathless, dazed, looking down at his nightshift, in hopeless disarray. His eyes looked dilated and dark in the soft candlelight of the room, his thin mouth red and swollen from Monseigneur's kisses. He looked perfect.

"And cheeky as ever," observed Monseigneur, lips trailing down to nip lightly at the junction between John's ear and jaw. "Do you enjoy my punishments so much that you're always inviting them upon your head?"

A scoffing laugh from John, quickly turning into a soft, incoherent cry as he felt the first, sharp graze of teeth against his skin. He arched his neck, a clear invitation, even as his hands tightened on Monseigneur's back, his nape. Monseigneur smiled a secret smile against John's neck, licking away the small hurt he had inflicted. He'd never realized John could be so responsive when he wasn't fighting him. Monseigneur could hardly hold back his excitement at finally having this man beneath him, pliant and unresisting, welcoming.

John shuddered as he felt Monseigneur run the tip of his tongue down the length of his neck, pausing to suck a sharp kiss at the junction of neck and shoulder.

_There will be marks there tomorrow_, John thought indistinctly. _He's marking me as his_. _All over. God._

Those beautiful, hard hands roaming over his nightshift now clenched themselves into the soft material, and John felt the cloth giving way, buttons unpopping from their loops, as Monseigneur dragged the shift roughly up and over his head. Except for his linen braies covering his loins, John would be completely naked.

"Off," Monseigneur whispered before he leaned down to trail his mouth over the newly exposed skin of John's chest; so unexpectedly soft, that mouth, and eager.

"People would say this is wrong," John said, breath shuddering out of him as Monseigneur's mouth moved lower down to his chest.

"This is between us, John," Monseigneur said, undeterred as he moved over John's body, smoothly serpentine. "What does this have to do with other people? However…"

A sharp gasp from John as Monseigneur suckled at a nipple until it pebbled roughly in his mouth, feeling John's body heave under his as the first, faint tremors started deep in John's body.

"Does any of this feel wrong to you, John?" whispered Monseigneur, withdrawing his mouth from John's moist, heated skin. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

A groan from John, desperate, lost. "No," he finally said, closing his eyes.

"No, what?"

_Fucking tease…!_

"Don't stop," said John hoarsely, hands catching at Monseigneur's head, bringing it down once again onto his chest. "Please, I want…_I want…"_

_Yes, John_, Monseigneur thought with deep satisfaction. _Want me. Always. Nobody but me._

Monseigneur could feel his own body tightening as it reacted to John's needy responses, could feel the heavy hardness down in his loins. Soon. For now, his own needs would have to be voluptuously deferred as he gradually took possession of this man, so wild at heart, so full of need for him that could no longer be hidden.

Of a sudden, John's hands came to life as they clasped hard around Monseigneur's body. Monseigneur realized just in time what John planned to do and resisted the savage pull of that compact, muscular body as it sought to pin him underneath John. They tussled on the bed for a moment, their breathing heavy, the only sound in the silent room.

"I want to see you," said John, panting.

"Soon," purred Monseigneur.

"Now," insisted John, his voice hard, demanding.

Monseigneur realized that John meant to have his way. There was no denying that the stubborn man would end up getting anything he wanted if he bent his mind to it. He was scared, unsure of things, and he was trying to compensate by taking control of the situation; overcompensating, in fact.

And Monseigneur could not let him have his way. Not this time.

There was a heavy grunt of surprise as John felt Monseigneur slide a hand to cup his erection firmly through his braies and squeeze. Hard. Instantly, John froze, not daring to move another muscle. There was no telling what that hand would do next, what it was capable of.

"Patience, John," Monseigneur murmured darkly, hand unrelenting as it started to rub slowly, tantalizingly, over that hot bulge of flesh. "You first. I want to see all of you. Lie back down, that's my good John."

John swallowed hard, his face flushed, as he subsided reluctantly back on the pillows, body still tense. Face burning and eyes fixed firmly on the canopied ceiling of the bed, he made no attempt to stop Monseigneur from sliding the linen braies down his thighs, his legs. God, it felt good, and it was frightening. Absurdly, he felt like a virgin bride on her wedding night, anticipation mingling with something very much like terror.

"Oh, John."

Monseigneur's rapt intonation finally sent John's eyes snapping back to Monseigneur's face. The mask did much to conceal the expression of his eyes, but Monseigneur's mouth was another matter entirely: he was smiling in pure delight as he gazed down at that part of John he had just uncovered. John's erection was fully hard by then; shorter, perhaps, than Monseigneur's, but thick and rosy.

"Beautiful," breathed Monseigneur, and John felt shy pleasure and something ridiculously close to pride mingle deep inside him. He'd never thought of himself as _that_ before and yet something in Monseigneur's captivated demeanor told John that he meant what he said.

Monseigneur lifted a hand to glide experimentally along that thick shaft, from base to tip, sending a jolt through John. Reflexively, his hand shot out to close around Monseigneur's, but it carried with it no opposition, was not even aware it had a mission.

"Show me how you like it," whispered Monseigneur.

It was really a bit too much, that dark, sinful voice. Almost before he knew what was happening, John found his hand guiding Monseigneur's over his length— the clinging touch of five fingers that he liked best, wrapped around his cock, a slow slide at first, gradually speeding up; the little squeeze near the tip.

"Yeah, like that," John said a little breathlessly after just a few strokes as Monseigneur quickly caught on. "God, just like that."

"John." Monseigneur was not as unaffected as he seemed, for his voice had slurred just a little, so that John's name came out all soft, like a rush of wind: _Zhuhn._

Just like that very first time they'd talked to each other in the tent, after Monseigneur's fever had subsided.

Just his name on Monseigneur's lips, and John felt close to coming.

Monseigneur must have sensed it too, for he quickly pulled his hand away from John's hardness.

"Too soon," he murmured. "I've not even undressed yet."

John flushed, staring as Monseigneur reached out with a hand to unbutton his cote-hardie, as he peeled off layer after layer of clothing right there in front of John. Those clever fingers worked impatiently over the rich fabrics, tossing them carelessly from him. All the while, Monseigneur's pale gaze never quite left John's face. _Watch me, John_, his shielded eyes seemed to say. _Only me. _

Candelight bathed Monseigneur's pale flesh, turning it into shades of flickering gold, as he did away with his purple silk shirt. John felt himself stir as he watched those long, supple fingers glide down the length of that lithely muscular body to work on black trousers.

John had seen him naked before; he knew what Monseigneur's body looked like. The man had, after all, bared himself to John in one memorable occasion, but he'd never seen it like this, never when Monseigneur was aroused. John looked at him now and felt his mouth go dry, felt all his earlier fears return with a vengeance.

Monseigneur caught his look and said indulgently, "You need not worry, John. Let me handle this for now. There will be nothing uncomfortable for you this first time, I promise."

After a moment, John nodded, reassured. He looked away from that hard length and slipped his hand against Monseigneur's nape as the man bent down to kiss him lightly on the mouth. Back to familiar territory. Against Monseigneur's lips, John said, "You've not finished undressing yet."

He meant the mask of course, but Monseigneur stayed his hand as John reached up to strip him of his last garment.

"No," said Monseigneur, voice almost a growl as he moved his face away.

"But—"

"That shall be your punishment for failing to heed my order to undress," said Monseigneur, lips stretched wide in a wolfish smile.

"You bad man," muttered John, beginning to smile himself. "You enjoy inflicting your punishments, don't you?"

"As much as you enjoy taking them," said Monseigneur. "And I know you find the mask…irresistible. A challenge. It arouses you, does it not?"

John reached out to touch the black velvet around Monseigneur's eyes. "Yes," he found himself saying.

A long, white finger on his lips. "Enough talk," murmured Monseigneur. "I'm going to kiss you now."

John stared at him blankly, a little uncertainly. Hadn't Monseigneur been kissing him since this entire exercise began?

Monseigneur began to laugh quietly. Could the man really be this innocent? "Oh, John," he said. "Adorable John. Not on your mouth, of course."

Oh. _Oh._

John's body tensed right away as the realization finally hit him. "Sherlock, wait—"

But Monseigneur's mouth was already on his stomach, smearing a hot, wet line down his navel. John only had time to put a restraining hand on Monseigneur's curls before he felt that talented tongue on his cock, licking at the crown before Monseigneur took the broad head into his warm, waiting mouth and sucked.

God, the delicious sensation of that wet heat engulfing him was new, incredible. John's head slammed back into the pillows as his hips bucked up instinctively, a wordless, strangled cry forced from his throat as all thoughts of protesting disappeared from his mind, to be replaced by _more. Oh, more!_

Monseigneur splayed a hand on John's stomach and held him down as the other hand wrapped itself on the base of John's cock, fingers working a slow slide up and down, just as John liked it, in time with the movements of Monseigneur's mouth on the very tip of John's shaft. God, those lips, wrapped around him, that cruel, velvet mouth, lined with sin. One sharp suck and that tongue gently rubbing against the underside of his prick, and it became too much, too quickly.

Barely five minutes into this alien kiss, and John was going to come. What would Monseigneur think?

_"Sherlock—!"_

The choked entreaty made Monseigneur look up from his ministrations. The warning signs were all there— on John's face, his rigid, trembling body. It had been a long time for him; he was unused to this. With a few more strokes, he was really going to lose it.

Monseigneur immediately removed his mouth from John and tightened his hold for a moment over the base of his shaft, pinching off the sensations.

"John," Monseigneur said, rising over him, dark as the night outside. John felt Monseigneur's fingers card through his hair, heard his softly murmured "hush" as John let out a small sound, perilously close to a whimper.

"Look at me, John."

His breathing rapid, uneven, John shifted his gaze back to Monseigneur, at that delicious mouth.

"You're worried," observed Monseigneur, the tone of his voice odd. "Worried about disappointing me. Oh, John."

The feel of those lips on John's, tongue licking into his mouth to tease his, and John tasted his own flavor and musk for the first time.

"You need not worry," whispered Monseigneur against his mouth. "It's going to be so good. It's all you'll ever want, all you'll be asking for."

At those words, John felt Monseigneur shift his weight, moving to straddle him.

"So good," promised Monseigneur, breaking the kiss and aligning himself against John's straining erection. "Here. Now."

It started out as one slow, lingering glide, then another. A hiss of pleasure, issuing from John's clenched mouth, as sensation flooded him.

"Can you feel it, John?" a quiver in Monseigneur's voice as his movements gathered speed and force, as the easy slide gradually took the form of shorter, harder thrusts. "Do you feel us, together?"

"Oh God," was all John could think to say. It did feel incredible. He could not seem to take his eyes from the sight of their cocks rubbing together in an urgent rhythm, held together by Monseigneur's hand.

"Look at us, John," whispered Monseigneur. "How we belong together."

The urge to thrust back came naturally enough, and John did, slowly at first, then gaining momentum as his confidence increased.

"I knew it," said Monseigneur, forehead bent so low that it was touching John's. "That first time I ever saw you, John, I knew immediately that we belonged."

John was already well past listening at this point. He lifted his head, took Monseigneur's mouth roughly with his, a play of tongues that mimicked the urgency of their lovemaking.

"Christ," choked John, feeling his body gathering itself in, coiling tightly as it reached that pinnacle of sensation. Monseigneur was already beyond words, forehead against John's, lips curled back in a snarl as he watched him with eyes dilated to midnight black, both of them not capable of anything other than _feeling_ as they thrust and ground against each other, all restraint gone. At that moment, everything fell away and there was just the two of them, mindless of anything other than the man in front of him and the shared pleasure, brutally wonderful. Completion was just a heartbeat away.

Then everything shattered.

A sharp cry echoed in the still room at the first burst of ecstasy, answered by a deep growl of satisfaction. Different sounds from different throats as wave after fiery wave of release burned through them. A deep, cleansing flame, it felt to John, razing him to ashes so that he may be reborn, renewed— whole and unbroken.

After what seemed a long while, John came back to himself to find Monseigneur collapsed on top of him, face tucked against his shoulder, his breathing harsh. Everything in the room seemed as before, only John knew something had changed forever between him and the man who'd taken him as his lover.

"John." There was movement at last from Monseigneur. He turned his wet, masked face to look at John. "Extraordinary John."

John smiled at him, a sense of deep, quiet contentment filling that empty place in his heart even as it raced away in his chest. He licked his dry lips and said, "You...couldn't have known all this about us, back when we first met. How could you?"

Monseigneur gave a tired shrug. "I did," he said simply.

"We were fighting when we first laid eyes on each other. You told me to surrender or die."

"And I knew the moment you knocked my sword out of my hands that I had to have you, one way or another."

"Why?"

Monseigneur said, "Because of what I saw in your eyes. What I see in them now."

John raised his brows as he stared at Monseigneur quizzically.

"How can I possibly resist, John," murmured Monseigneur, tracing an affectionate finger down the side of John's face, "when you look at me like that, with so much wonder?"

* * *

**Author's Notes**: The rose's many meanings and symbolisms date back to antiquity. Apart from its classical associations denoting love and beauty, ancient Romans placed a wild rose on the door of a room where secret or confidential matters were discussed. The phrase _sub rosa_, or "under the rose", means to keep a secret — derived from this ancient Roman practice.

In the postscript of his novel,** "The Name of the Rose"**, Umberto Eco said he chose the title for his book "because the rose is a symbolic figure so rich in meanings that by now it hardly has any meaning left". (Source: Wikipedia). There is also a Medieval poem on courtly love called **La Roman de la Rose** **(Romance of the Rose)**, again with themes portraying the intricacies of love and the object of that love (the lady was portrayed as a rose). I thought the rose and its allusion to the possibility of many meanings or of nebulous meaning also very aptly reflects Monseigneur's person and why he'd choose to woo John in a rose garden— the secrecy and the multi-layered, labyrinthine puzzle that constitute the man and his plans. Even the mask he wears is an allusion to the mystery surrounding him— how certain parts of him are closed off and inaccessible to others.

The phrase, "All is fair in love and war", is not a Medieval saying. It came much later, and can be traced to **John** **Lyly's 'Euphues' (1578).** The quote was "The rules of fair play do not apply in love and war." John Lyly was a Renaissance English poet and playwright. (Source: Wiki Answers)

Details of Medieval dress (Monseigneur's, especially) can be found in chapter 9. Linen braies would be the equivalent of men's underwear or undergarments during that time. Buttons were already in existence, but there were no buttonholes in clothes. Rather, loops were crafted into the clothing to hold buttons in place. (Sources: Wikipedia and Myths About the Middle Ages)

_Antaidh_— Scottish Gaelic for "aunt"

_Mon __cœur_— French for "my heart"

* * *

**Personal Note (June 30, 2013):** Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews and messages of concern, my dears. Rest assured, the story is not going to be abandoned. Real life just intruded (and intruded really hard) for the past month or so. I hope to finish the next chapter really soon. For updates, please do check my tumblr (nana_41175). In the meantime, here is a little teaser:

_When the warrior took me in his arms I felt the fire of pleasure…_

—The Anglo-Saxon Elegy (VIII century)

John's blow sent Monseigneur sprawling back to fall in an ungraceful heap on the dusty ground, but he was far from finished with the bastard.

His hands were trembling as he grabbed at the man's rumpled collar and jerked Monseigneur around to face him. A red splotch surrounded the small cut on his cheekbone where John's fist had connected with his face. Soon it was going to turn into a bruise.

"You…_fucking…!"_ John's breath hissed out through clenched teeth. He was so angry he could hardly breathe.

And through it all, the bastard was grinning, laughing that dark, rich laugh, low and soft.

"Yes," said Monseigneur, verdigris eyes wide, fixed on John's rigid face. "Go ahead, John. I know you want to. I want you to do it. Punish me. Punish me with kisses."

* * *

Aww, yiisss! Am back to writing Captive Hearts 30. As you can see, it's not a good idea (?) to enrage John, especially when he learns of Monseigneur's betrothal to a certain princess…


	30. Chapter 29

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 29**

* * *

Thank you so much for your kind concern and inquiries during the entire month I've not been able to update this story. Real life has been demanding, but things are now settling down and hopefully I can start updating regularly again. Throughout this difficult time, your messages and reviews made me smile very much. Please leave a signed review if you can so that I will get back to you. If it is not possible, then I just want to say THANK YOU! Please do keep your messages coming!

**Special Thanks:** To Sher_locked_up, my Beta extraordinaire.

And to PlumpPushu, my French Connection.

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

When the warrior took me in his arms I felt the fire of pleasure.

_- The Anglo-Saxon Elegy (VIII century)_

John did not know how long he slept, but it felt wonderful— the feeling of being immersed in the deep, dark oblivion of complete rest, sweet and rare. He first became aware of movement behind him, that long, warm body spooned along the length of his back gradually stirring. He smiled, eyes shut, mind still hazy with sleep as he felt long fingers gliding slowly, teasingly over his shoulder and down his arm.

_"Zhuhn." _A mere breath of sound in the softly enclosing darkness of the curtained bed, whispered right beside his ear.

John drowsily turned his head a fraction, blindly seeking the feel of lips that must be so near his skin. Instantly, a pair of arms wound their way gently around his body, preventing him from turning around.

"Zhuhn," whispered Monseigneur behind him. "Il est encore bien trop tôt, tu peux te rendormir. Mon cher Zhuhn."

He must still be asleep and dreaming, John decided after a moment. Monseigneur had never thought to talk to him in Gondalian before, and what was even more surprising was John's realization that somehow he could understand what Monseigneur was saying, the way dreaming people could be omniscient of foreign languages.

_Zhuhn_— his name in Gondalian. _Jean._

The sound of his name on Monseigneur's tongue was ravishingly beautiful.

"I must still be dreaming," John heard himself say out loud.

_Or perhaps not_, he thought, feeling a _frisson_ of pleasure go through him as Monseigneur, cat-like, rubbed his faintly stubbled cheek against John's nape affectionately.

There was a smile in Monseigneur's soft voice as it purred, "Rêves-tu de moi? J'aimerais bien ça."

John felt soft lips brush lightly at his temple at last as he began to drift off once again.

"Rendormir," repeated that soft, hypnotic voice.

* * *

When he next opened his eyes, John found the sun had definitely risen, slicing a clear ray of early morning light onto his sheets through a slit in the closely drawn bed curtains around him.

And Monseigneur was definitely gone.

John turned his gaze away from the empty pillow beside him and sighed. It was useless asking himself if last night had been a dream, considering the overwhelming evidence to the contrary: the indentation of another head on the pillow next to him; the faint musky scent of arousal and fulfillment that teased his nostrils in the closed confines of the bed; his nakedness and the delicious feeling of the sheets against his skin. Stretching languorously, John yawned and found that he was actually wearing a broad grin and very little else.

_Stop that_, cried that portion of his mind that was still capable of caution.

The swell of happiness gradually ebbed away and John closed his eyes, for a moment allowing himself to simply, quietly breathe in and out, taking in the warm scent of the sheets that smelled of _him_ and remembering what had transpired between them last night. He waited for the doubts to start surfacing.

Instead: _God, last night was incredible._

Oh, this was not good, if that was all he could think of the situation, if he could not even bring himself to feel anything other than immense satisfaction over what had happened. He'd come a long way with Monseigneur these past few weeks.

John lay there, eyes closed, a hand folded on his chest over his heart, its beat quiet and untroubled, as he remembered Monseigneur's long, clever fingers which could be cruel or gentle depending on their owner's whims, never failing to arouse him as they had touched and stroked and caressed him in a deeply sensual exploration.

_Look at us, John…how we belong together…_

John turned and burrowed his burning cheek deeper into his pillow as he remembered that moment, and the moments that had followed when they had lain together, tired and contented, and quietly talked.

Something was deeply wrong with him, he decided, if he could think back on those moments when he'd finally given in to Monseigneur, when they had unraveled together, pitching headlong into sweet, dark disaster, without feeling the slightest trace of regret or revulsion.

Something was deeply wrong with him, John realized, if he could not bring himself to feel ashamed for surrendering to the man even now.

Because now…

All he wanted to do right now was to get up and go to him. To see how Monseigneur would look in the clear light of day after last night, when their relationship had been transformed forever. Would he be altered by their encounter the way John had felt himself changed by it? Would he be nervous? Would he— John swallowed hard— would he think it was all a mistake?

There was only one way to find out. John got up and began to get dressed.

* * *

It was still early when John ventured out, not encountering a soul until he reached the outer stone courtyard that led to the gardens where he found Billy tending to Monseigneur's peregrine falcon, the one Eustace had made John take along in place of the sick Azrail.

And standing a few paces away from Billy, with his back to John, stood Monseigneur.

John was too far away to catch what Monseigneur was saying to the boy, but he caught the inflections in that deep, drawling voice which was enough to enable him to arrive at his own conclusions. Poor Billy. What must it be like for the lad, to be serving such a man as Monseigneur? Doubtless he was terrified of him, but it was evident to John that Billy also genuinely admired, even adored his master. John had to marvel at the many contradictory feelings that Monseigneur alone could excite in people.

Now John was close enough to hear what Monseigneur had to say: "You must always remember to keep your head up, no matter what the circumstances. You have a distressing habit of hanging your head whenever you are praised, which is rather odd."

Without thinking, John opened his mouth and said, "I know just the solution for that."

He watched with immense satisfaction as Monseigneur went still for a brief second. Startled, Billy looked up and blurted out, "John, sir."

"Have you, indeed?" drawled Monseigneur as he finally turned around to face John. His masked visage gave nothing away, though John thought he saw a smile flickering in the depths of those pale eyes.

It took a moment for John to realize that they were waiting for his answer and he looked away from Monseigneur's face.

"Praise him more often," John suggested, stopping a few feet away from Monseigneur, "until he gets used to it. God only knows he deserves it."

Monseigneur said nothing, merely regarded John with cool amusement as his eyes raked over John's face, searching- for what? Hesitation? Second thoughts? Finding none, it was as though a veil had suddenly lifted from Monseigneur's shuttered features.

John cleared his throat and glanced away, suddenly aware that he was staring at Monseigneur for just a moment too long. "You're…hanging your head again," he said with a smile, indicating Billy, who turned beet-red and jerked his chin up just as Monseigneur turned to regard him with a piercing eye.

Monseigneur sighed in exasperated resignation and said to the boy, "We're leaving first thing after dinner. You'll have a lot of packing to do so I suggest you start going about it right now."

"My lord. Sir," said Billy, smiling as he was dismissed, bowing briefly in front of the two men.

"Good morning," John said carefully when Billy was finally out of earshot.

"There's no need to state the obvious, John," drawled Monseigneur even as a corner of his mouth tilted up ever so slightly. "But if you will insist upon a bit of courteous small talk as part of the morning-after scene, I shall not disoblige you."

John's mouth twitched and for a moment he was not sure whether he ought to scowl or laugh, but a chuckle finally escaped him. "You're really too hard on him, you know," he said. "A kind word and a bit of patience would do wonders with Billy."

"We don't have time for kind words and patience, John," replied Monseigneur, his tone clipped.

At those words, John raised his brows and said nothing. Just what Monseigneur meant by that, he was not sure.

"Anyway, as his master I do have certain responsibilities toward the boy's training," continued Monseigneur, his tone turning haughty.

John shrugged and still said nothing as he regarded Monseigneur with a bland expression.

"And I don't see why I ought to justify myself to you at all," snapped Monseigneur, finally finding John's continued silence unnerving.

John shook his head, unperturbed. "Nah," he said agreeably. "Why should you?"

They stared at each other for a moment longer before they burst into soft, reluctant laughter.

"You look exceedingly well-rested," Monseigneur murmured, his gaze more tender than John had ever seen it as it alighted once again on John's face. "Breakfast?"

John's smile widened. "Starving."

Turning around, they strolled back toward the castle in amicable silence, keeping a suitable distance between them except when their fingers would occasionally, accidentally graze against each other as they walked side by side. Except when Monseigneur's long fingers deliberately lingered against John's own, trailing up to tease his palm in the lightest of touches, as they entered the threshold of the castle.

* * *

The Queen Mother apparently did not eat breakfast, although she did ask to see them after they had taken theirs. She had received some urgent news: Sir Bruce, the King's private secretary, would be arriving soon to convey a matter of the greatest importance to them.

Monseigneur rolled his eyes upon hearing it. "Don't tell me the King has had a change of heart and the wedding is now off," he said flatly.

It was worse than that, it seemed.

Sir Partington arrived punctually at midday in a flurry of red and yellow robes. In no time at all, he was bowing, feathered hat in hand, in front of the Queen Mother and Monseigneur.

"Monseigneur. Madame," he started to say and stared uncertainly at Lady Hudson and John who were seated unobtrusively farther away.

"They're my people, you may talk freely in front of them," declared Monseigneur, his voice firm, "though not in Gondalian."

"Certainly, Your Highness," replied Sir Bruce smoothly even as he managed to inject the tiniest sliver of doubt into his tone.

_A highly skilled, very slick courtier_, John thought; the kind that Monseigneur very obviously disliked.

"His Majesty sends his excuses in not being able to be here personally to relay the news to you," Sir Bruce continued as he produced two rolls of parchment with the King's red seal prominently displayed upon them and presented these to the Queen Mother and Monseigneur.

John watched, dismayed, as Monseigneur gave a sneer and tossed his papers away after going over them briefly. "Impossible," he said. "I cannot just go off to Glasstown now to dance attendance upon the King, not when I still have so many things to do. His Majesty overestimates that woman's importance."

Lady Hudson and John exchanged confused glances.

"The woman's plans cannot possibly succeed," declared the Queen Mother, her voice ice-cold. "Who does she think she is?"

"If I may, I can assure Your Highness that we have assessed the situation involving the Exinian princess," cut in Sir Bruce, "and His Majesty regrets that there is a basis to take the princess in all earnest. Thus, His Majesty has deemed it of paramount importance that your Highness fulfill your obligation toward your betrothed—"

A soft, horrified gasp from Lady Hudson as full comprehension dawned on her at last. John stared at Monseigneur incredulously, feeling as though the air had been punched out of him. Was he even hearing this right?

"We have an agreement," growled Monseigneur, rounding on Sir Bruce, who very calmly and infuriatingly refused to back down.

"Then it is the perfect time for Your Highness to act on the agreement made with His Majesty," Sir Bruce corrected himself with perfect suavity, "although His Majesty is of the opinion that Monseigneur will find it more expedient to just marry the girl. Those are His Majesty's words, exactly. That is all I have been asked to convey, along with the information that His Majesty expects the pleasure of Your Highness's company in Glasstown within a fortnight."

"John, my Lady Hudson, you may leave the room," said Monseigneur tersely without even looking at them.

They made quickly to obey.

The doors were made of good oak, heavy and thick, but not thick enough to drown out Monseigneur's shouting completely.

* * *

Lady Hudson paced for a while in the rose gardens while John sat stonily on a wooden bench, staring away at nothing.

"Oh," muttered Lady Hudson, wringing her hands in distress. "And I thought Monseigneur's match with the princess of Exinia is long dead and buried."

John turned to look at her. "So he's engaged to be married," he said slowly. "I…didn't misunderstand that bit, then."

"It was arranged when they were children," Lady Hudson answered distractedly. "The two kings had an understanding. But there was never a confirmation ceremony, not even by proxy. It was repeatedly pushed off, first when Monseigneur left Court for Elderidge. The subsequent meeting between the two children had not been a success, and then Exinia itself descended into chaos not long afterward when the king died. It was a complicated affair and the princess was not allowed to succeed as queen. But really, I thought they've already broken it off, or else why wait this long to bring up the marriage pact again? Besides, the Exinian princess' reputation does not warrant contemplation."

John licked his lips and said, "I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Oh, John," said Lady Hudson, shaking her head. "You have not seen the Princess Irene yet. Word has it she is exceedingly beautiful and clever, perhaps too beautiful and clever for her own good, but her reputation! Why, Monseigneur could use that as an excuse to call everything off and I am sure nobody would raise any objection."

"I doubt if she can rival that of Monseigneur," John quipped.

"Oh, John. Pray do not joke about such a thing," admonished Lady Hudson. "Through the years, the woman has been linked to one scandal after another in Exinia and beyond— nothing concrete, as far as I can make out, but the rumors, John! If they are even remotely true then she is certainly most wicked."

John stared at Lady Hudson and waited for her to elaborate.

"I can't!" she said helplessly after a moment. "It is too distressing. Delicacy forbids me to divulge the details, but she is known to be entirely wild and shameless and she has…she is known to have certain exotic tastes."

John's brows shot up at this. He was intrigued in spite himself, but before he could press Lady Hudson further, Monseigneur's deep voice sounded across the rose hedges: "I shall need to find out who has been debasing your ears in such a manner, my Lady Hudson."

A small squeak issued from Lady Hudson as they whipped around to see Monseigneur standing a few feet away, hands behind his back. "We'll be leaving after dinner as planned," he said, perfectly composed. "I'm sure my Lady has her packing to attend to."

After Lady Hudson's hasty retreat, Monseigneur turned to John and said, "Come along, John, my mother wishes to see you before we leave. I'm sure she will be presenting you with gifts— medicines and salves mostly. Make sure to ask for additional bottles of her excellent rose oil, we will need as much as—"

"When do you plan on telling me about your engagement to the Princess of Exinia?" John burst out. Monseigneur's nonchalance was the last straw to break his fragile patience.

A cool silence descended before Monseigneur turned his back abruptly on John and began walking away from him.

Undeterred, John called after him, "If at all?"

"You weren't planning on telling me at all, were you?" accused John as he caught up with Monseigneur. The pain and bewildered disappointment starting deep inside his chest were appalling, and his realization that he was powerless to rein in these feelings were even more so.

"Why should I? It's boring and certainly does not warrant much attention," declared Monseigneur, his tone clearly indicating he had no wish to pursue the matter. "Besides, it does not concern us in any way."

"It does not—?" John could hardly believe what he was hearing. _"You're engaged to be married!" _

"Boring," repeated Monseigneur. "Let us hear no more of it. Now don't forget what I told you about my mother's oil."

"_Wait!"_ John's hand bit down on Monseigneur's wrist, encased in its sleeve of black silk. His tone had thinned out, turned breathy with frustration and beginning rage. They weren't done yet. They were _far _from done.

Monseigneur paused, then turned slowly back to face John, his eyes hooded and filled with unmistakable warning: _Not here. Not in broad daylight._

John let out a shaky breath and released his grip as reason returned, belated. He watched as Monseigneur turned from him and walked away.

* * *

"It is a pity," the Queen Mother said with a sigh, "that Monseigneur has chosen to return to Elderidge this very afternoon. Given the King's urgent communications though, I can imagine he will need to make wise use of his time to prepare for what is to come."

She glanced at John and, when he made no comment, pointed to the bottles of medicines on the table before them as she continued, "I hope these liniments and salves will be of use to you."

John roused himself with some effort and said, "Yes, they are going to be extremely useful. I am grateful to your Majesty."

Something in his tone made the Queen Mother's gaze linger on him for a moment longer before she murmured softly: "Ma pauvre John."

When John raised his head to look at her in alarm, she said, "You found Sir Bruce's announcement a shock, no? I can see you are new to this, new to my son's ways. Yet I wonder whether it is really possible that it has never occurred to you that my son will marry, sooner or later. My sons, after all, have yet to fulfill a most important royal obligation to the country by producing children. I have some advice to offer you, John. It is not for me to disapprove of your…friendship with my son, but for your own sake, do not be so transparent with your affections for him. Especially not at Court. It pains me to have to say it, but I hope you realize that it is kindly meant."

John swallowed hard and looked away, mortified at being so easily read by this woman.

The Queen Mother's tone turned quietly pleading as she continued, "I love my fair son. To be truthful, I love him above all else, as I very nearly lost him, not once but twice. As a healer, I think you will understand how I feel as a mother. But my son is headstrong, and in his way, he is incredibly naïve. Therefore, I must ask you to think not just for yourself, but for him as well. If you really care for him, you will do it."

John was not sure what to make of her words, and finally he said, "Your Majesty may rest assured that I'm not going to make a spectacle of myself over Monseigneur."

"I know you won't," said the Queen Mother, breaking into a gentle smile. "You are far too sensible a person for that, I think. It's my son I'm worried about."

John broke into a soft chuckle at her words. The Queen Mother's smile turned wistful as she said, "If there is nothing else, I believe the next time we meet will be at Court, John Watson."

John thought briefly about Monseigneur's request but finally said, "There is nothing else, your Majesty."

* * *

Monseigneur took one look at him when they were preparing to mount their horses and said shortly, "You didn't get the oil."

"I forgot," said John blithely.

"You did nothing of the kind," said Monseigneur, voice dark with accusation.

"Look, why is it so important to you?" said John, exasperated. "I can probably make some at the Lair, if you need it that badly for your experiments."

"You deliberately disobeyed me."

John turned to him and said in a calm, measured tone, "It's not a catastrophe. Like I said, I can make some medicinal oil for you if you need it. People can't always meet your expectations. Get used to it."

"No," said Monseigneur, shaking his head. "This doesn't have anything to do with you not meeting my expectations. This has something to do with news of that woman—"

"You know what?" said John as he brought his whip down on his horse's flank. "We're done talking."

* * *

Of course, John thought bitterly, it had everything to do with that woman— that princess. John had never met anyone from Exinia before, but he had heard about the legendary beauty of Exinian women who were dark of hair and eyes, voluptuous and sensual, passionate and hot-tempered. He'd also heard that some Exinian women were notorious witches. Could their princess be a match for the demon prince of Gaaldine, after all?

The mere thought was enough to turn his stomach. John thought back on the Queen Mother's words and shrank from the memory of his momentary loss of control as he grabbed at Monseigneur in the rose gardens. In those few stunned moments, he had quite forgotten himself. The Queen Mother was right. He would need to be more careful.

Ahead of him, John had never seen Monseigneur ride the Beast so hard. It was obvious from the way he was manning the poor brute that Monseigneur was working himself up into a black rage just in time for their arrival at the Lair. Which was fine. It was more than fine for John, but it would not be good for Molly, or anyone else who got in Monseigneur's way.

They were the first to reach the Lair, and as they dismounted in the courtyard, John had enough time to warn Monseigneur, "Take this out on Molly, and I swear I will punch you right here, right now, for everyone to see."

"Make haste for the dungeons then, John," Monseigneur said, teeth bared in a fierce smile. "Let's have it out there."

With that, he turned and strode into the Lair just as the Lady Molly was coming out.

* * *

The man was just impossible, fumed John as he descended the stairs that led to the dungeons. In the bustle and din of their arrival, it had not been easy to slip away unnoticed yet John managed, after speaking briefly to Molly, reassuring her that everything was all right.

Of course, everything was not all right, but he would have to deal with this, with Monseigneur, all by himself.

Monseigneur was waiting inside his workroom, perched against one of his tables as John entered.

"Finally," he growled. "Come along, then. Bring your torch with you."

Monseigneur was heedless of John's protests: "Where are we going? Look, we can talk easily right over there, there's no need for us to go anywhere else..."

John had never been this far into the dungeons before. They entered a dark, narrow doorway, leaving Monseigneur's workroom behind. As they walked on, John suddenly remembered Mike's account of how he had gotten lost down here and felt the hairs on his nape rise.

Surely, Monseigneur would not think of murdering him or worse, shutting him in down here, where he'd never see the light of day ever again, just because he'd pissed him off a day after they'd made love. Would he?

_Well, fuck him_, John decided. _He'd have to get at me first._

A turn in the narrow corridor led them to a small, circular room, bare of any furniture and the dust thick on the ground.

Monseigneur gestured at an empty sconce on the wall for John to hang his torch, and John found himself unwilling to let Monseigneur out of his sight for a single moment lest the man pounce on him. Wasn't it why they were here? To fight?

Yet Monseigneur's next words surprised John.

"Well, let's get this over with quickly," said Monseigneur, his tone curt. "Punch me in the face."

John froze. Breathing out an incredulous laugh, he said, "What?"

"Didn't you hear me?" Said Monseigneur impatiently, obligingly turning a cheek towards John. "I said, _punch me in the face."_

Well, John did hear him loud and clear the first time around. As far as he was concerned he always heard "punch me in the face" whenever Monseigneur was speaking, although it was usually subtext. "I— no."

"Don't be daft, John. Just do it."

John shook his head. "Look, there's no need to make this more dramatic than it al—"

"Oh for God's sake," cried Monseigneur exasperatedly, swinging at John with a closed fist.

John had not seen it coming, and he staggered back, ears ringing, numbness giving way to the first tendrils of pain blooming across his right cheek as he finally registered that Monseigneur had punched him.

_The bloody, batshit-crazy bastard!_

Without thinking, John hit back, giving as good as he got. His blow sent Monseigneur sprawling back to fall in an ungraceful heap on the dusty ground, but he was far from finished with the bastard.

It was an ungainly scuffle, with Monseigneur proving to be quite skillful with his fists. It took John a few minutes to subdue the man in a headlock before he felt Monseigneur begin to give way beneath him.

"John, I think we're done now," Monseigneur finally choked out, hands around the unyielding band of iron that was John's arm.

Breathing in ragged gasps, John growled, "You'll want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people."

"You're a healer," gasped Monseigneur.

"I've had bad days!" With that, John abruptly let go of the man's neck and Monseigneur sank to his knees, coughing.

John was not through with him yet. He had things to say as soon as his mouth could form the words. His hands were trembling as he grabbed at the man's rumpled collar and jerked Monseigneur around to face him. A red splotch surrounded the small cut on his cheekbone where John's fist had connected with his face earlier. Soon it was going to turn into an ugly, mottled purple.

"You…_fucking…!"_ John's breath hissed out through clenched teeth. He was still so angry. So angry he could hardly breathe or think.

And through it all, the bastard was grinning, laughing that dark, rich laugh, low and soft.

"Yes," said Monseigneur, verdigris eyes wide, fixed on John's rigid face. "Go ahead, John. I know you want to. Punish me. Punish me with kisses."

"Bastard!" snarled John, yet he could not help himself as the words sent a rush of heat to pool in his loins. He grabbed at Monseigneur's curls, roughly tilting his face up to receive John's bruising kisses.

"John!" A soft sigh escaped from Monseigneur, quickly dissolving into a moan as John thrust his tongue into Monseigneur's mouth to lick and taste and claim.

Desire flared within John, potent, dangerously out of control, as he broke the kiss to run his open mouth against the sweat-slicked column of Monseigneur's throat, tasting the salt on his skin, breathing him in. He never remembered kneeling, but he found himself- both of them- there, on their knees with his hands in Monseigneur's hair and Monseigneur's skin against his mouth- so hot, moist with sweat, as though he were burning with fever all over again. As though he'd burn John along with him.

"Yes," growled Monseigneur, fisting his hands into the back of John's shirt, made dirty and damp from John's exertions before dragging them lower, cupping and kneading John's arse and moving to rid John of his trousers.

_"Mine,"_ John panted as he sank his teeth in the hollow of Monseigneur's throat, frantic hands already tearing aside Monseigneur's cote hardie, his underlying silk shirt. John felt intensely gratified as he heard Monseigneur hiss in a sharp breath, arching his neck beneath John's mouth as John felt him through the rich fabric of his clothes.

"Have me then, John," Monseigneur whispered savagely against John's ear before turning his mouth to kiss and nip and bite even as his long fingers closed around John's aching shaft.

_"Oh, God."_

The feel of Monseigneur's hard length in John's palm was a revelation. He licked into Sherlock's mouth as their hands unerringly found a rhythm against their bodies— fast and harsh, urgent, full of need.

"Yes, harder. Oh, just like that," whispered Monseigneur, cheek pressed against John's forehead as he thrust into John's hand. _"Oh, John!"_

John could not utter a sound, impervious to anything but the brutal pleasure that coiled and coiled tightly before spilling, spilling fast from him as he shuddered into his orgasm with a hoarse shout.

They lay on the hard, dusty floor for long minutes, winded, with John still half-draped over Monseigneur's still form, his arms around him.

"When the warrior took me in his arms, I felt the fire of pleasure," Monseigneur intoned breathlessly, speaking to nobody in particular.

"Fuck," John could only croak, chest still rising and falling rapidly.

From somewhere quite far away, John heard Monseigneur's voice: "You're jealous of that woman. How ridiculous of you, John."

"You should have told me you were betrothed," said John, unable to keep the resentment from his voice.

"What would you have done then?" asked Monseigneur, sounding interested. "Would you have been able to keep away from me?"

"Sherlock..." growled John in warning as he raised his head to glare at him.

"A betrothal does not necessarily mean marriage," said Monseigneur. "She means nothing to me. The last time we met she was a spoiled, little wench barely ten year old, with an insufferable sense of entitlement and an inclination to make threats that involve taking holy orders and being shut in a convent. Her fortunes have since taken a drastic turn and now she's reduced to making mischief against my brother on the eve of his second wedding. She's not that important to warrant my brother's full attention, yet her threats are of an intensely private nature, enough so that the King has resolved to make it my responsibility to deal with her as I see fit. So as you can see, John, it's hardly a situation that will end in wedding bells pealing on my behalf."

John swallowed. "So, you're..."

"She's reputed to be very clever, yet I have to wonder just how clever she might be if she chooses to engage in a power play with the most powerful family in Gaaldine," murmured Monseigneur. "I shall destroy her."

He turned to face John. "Don't tell me you're still envious of her, John," he said softly.

"Well now," said John resignedly. "Since you've put it that way..."

After a while, he lifted a hand to touch Monseigneur lightly on his bruised cheek.

"One of these days, I want to be inside you when I come," he said, quite daringly.

Monseigneur's lips stretched into a wide, wide smile. "My thoughts exactly," he said. "It's too bad you didn't get the oil like I asked you to. That was what it was intended for."

* * *

They visited the mews early the next day.

John watched, startled and fascinated with the way Azrail, now fully recovered, greeted her master upon his return. He had never seen her so agitated, flapping her wings and screaming a thin, shrill cry of affront and— it seemed to John— gladness as Monseigneur spoke to her in a gentle murmur, coaxing her onto his gloved hand. If Azrail had not been a hawk in those moments, she would have been in tears.

"Tout va bien, mon coeur. Je suis là maintenant. Tout va bien aller." Monseigneur's voice was a warm caress as Azrail finally consented to sit on his fist.

In his waking moments, John still had a long way to go with his Gondalian, but the language was finally beginning to make sense— bits and pieces, anyway.

He thought he understood what Monseigneur said just then, and he found himself wishing, hoping, it were true.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: I must confess that I have taken certain liberties with the way I portrayed Monseigneur's betrothal to the Princess Irene. Medieval royal marriages were highly complicated affairs. Deeply political and economic in nature, a royal marriage agreement was very much like an extensive business contract and a treaty rolled into one, involving not just the acquisition of a spouse, but of land, money, goods, gifts, dowry, and sometimes even armies as well. Prestige and the all-important alliance to be gained by countries as well as the continued acquisition of wealth were the most important goals of a royal marriage.

An "understanding" was usually formed by the royal parents and their courtiers when the royal bride and groom were children. Typically, courtiers were dispatched to inspect the future couple as extensive negotiations between countries further strengthened the understanding into a betrothal, which may be formal or non-formal. A betrothal may not necessarily lead to marriage and could be broken off for various reasons. What the groom or bride thought of each other accounted for very little in the outcome of these arranged marriages. If the negotiations were favorable, the marriage could first take place by proxy before the bride (usually a child ranging in age from 8 to 12 years old) finally left her parents and her homeland for her husband's country and the formal wedding celebrations.

(Sources: Royal Marriage in the Medieval Period-Sexuality Through the Ages; Isabella (Alison Weir); Wikipedia)

* * *

Translations:

Monseigneur: Jean, il est encore bien trop tôt, tu peux te rendormir. Mon cher Jean.

(John, it's still early, go back to sleep. My dear Jean.)

M: Rêves-tu de moi? J'aimerais bien ça.

(Are you dreaming of me? I'd like that.)

* * *

Queen Mum: Ma pauvre John.

(My poor John)

* * *

Monseigneur to Azrail: Tout va bien, mon coeur. Je suis là maintenant. Tout va bien aller.  
(It's all right, my heart. I'm here now. Everything is going to be all right.)


	31. Chapter 30

**Captive Hearts**

_A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story_

By

Nana

**Chapter 30**

* * *

**Special Thanks**: To my lovely Beta, **wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up),** for knocking this chapter into fantastic shape. Writing sexytimes is always a bit like torture for me— there is a very fine line between what is good stuff and what is plain ridiculous. Thanks so much for keeping things away from the latter category.

And to **Snogandagrope**, for suggesting almond oil!

To** Bertilakslady** yes to the lepers thing! And iron masks will be discussed in future chapters. Thank you!

Thanks so much for all your reviews, my dears! they're very much appreciated. Please do leave signed reviews so that I can get back to you. If it's not possible, then I want to just want to say many thanks!

More author's notes at the end.

* * *

The King could not be swayed.

No matter how many missives Monseigneur wrote, no matter how reasonable his arguments or how forceful his expostulations that his work with the antidote was not yet finished, the King refused to postpone his summons for Monseigneur to appear before him at Court in a fortnight's time.

In a confidential memorandum that constituted his reply to Monseigneur, the King laid down the facts: he was due to receive the Angrian Queen and her vast entourage within the week. The wedding was still weeks away, yet the Princess Irene had somehow managed to get wind of the Angrian Queen's scheduled arrival. The King's spies had most reliably reported to him that already, the contingent from Exinia had set sail, and not withstanding ill weather and rough seas, would set foot on Gaaldinian soil in a fortnight. There could be little doubt as to the woman's designs. A whiff of the scandal she promised to unleash, and the Angrian marriage— so painstakingly and laboriously negotiated— would be off. The King had yet to meet his bride in person; there were signs (naturally enough, considering how he had wooed her) that the Queen of Angria viewed him with mistrust and apprehension. He would need time to win her over personally, and he could not possibly do so if another woman were to barge in on the scene and wreak havoc on his carefully nurtured plans. A woman— may the King remind Monseigneur— who was actually betrothed, not to him, but to his younger brother.

"Considering your vested interest in the success of my marriage, I trust you, dear brother, to keep your word and fulfill your end of the bargain by taking care of the Woman before she transforms this most important of weddings into a travesty, or worse, prevent it from taking place at all," Monseigneur read out the last of his brother's letter for John to hear before tossing the offensive document away in disgust.

"Hold on a minute," said John, who was hugely interested in the proceedings, "your 'vested interest'?"

"Isn't it obvious?" drawled Monseigneur. "The King's first marriage ended without issue. Until my brother marries again and bears the necessary offspring, I will not be able to rid myself of the responsibility of marrying and bearing children of my own for the Crown."

"You…don't wish to be king," observed John slowly as he took in Monseigneur's palpable distaste at the mention of the word _crown_ and its attendant hereditary obligations.

Monseigneur gave him a withering look, the one usually reserved for such idiots as Anderson. "Do you think I'm suitable for the job, John?"

"Well…" said John.

Of course, being the man he was, Monseigneur had a point. Still, John could not imagine any ordinary man, possessing the normal amount of ambition, to refuse a crown when it was so easily within his reach.

But then he ought to have learned by now that Monseigneur was no ordinary man.

"And this woman, the Princess Irene—"

"Sorry, John. I'm under oath not to divulge the details of her, shall we say, _involvement_ with the King," cut in Monseigneur quickly.

John smiled. "I wasn't going to ask you to do that," he said. "But you have to hand it to her, she's got guts."

"She's desperate," said Monseigneur shortly. "She was an only child for the first fifteen years of her life. Her mother had died early and her doting father had spoiled her rotten. All her life she was groomed to succeed him as ruler of Exinia, never dreaming that he would marry again in his old age and— alas!—finally bear a male heir almost at the very last minute."

A smile flitted briefly across Monseigneur's lips as he glanced up to find John entranced by his narrative. "You can imagine what kind of special hell her existence has become since. The worst blow came around two years ago, when her father died quite suddenly and left the crown to his toddler son. Since then, the stepmother, a wily creature in her own right, has ruled for the woman's young stepbrother as regent. So now the woman's position has been reduced to that of a useless royal appendage. It is almost certain that her stepmother views her as a dangerous rival for her brother's crown. You can imagine to what great lengths her country's councilmen have gone to marry her off, but it is too late. Nobody would have her now. Our betrothal aside, there were other interested parties when she was younger, but she squandered her chances by toying with all and committing to none. In the meantime, she acquired an unsavory reputation that did not help with her marriage prospects at all.

"My brother expressed an intention to terminate the betrothal when our father passed away a few years ago. There was not much advantage for Gaaldine to be united with Exinia to begin with. The Exinians tried every diplomatic trick to stall the process, but it is my brother's own fault that he let the unsatisfactory affair continue for so long— he will never admit to it, and he's never had an opportunity to wield it against me, but I am certain he intended it as a kind of leverage to help keep me in line. Most tedious. Now it's come around to bite him in his plump posterior and suddenly he is all for immediate action to resolve the issue. I have no doubt that the woman is coming to demand the fulfillment of a promise that is as good as broken off, but here she exceeds herself by wanting to marry— not me— but the King of Gaaldine himself!"

John's smile widened to a delighted grin at the drama that promised to unfold at Court. "Like I said, she's got guts," he remarked.

"Obviously she has not planned on having to deal with me," said Monseigneur with aloof hauteur.

"But I am a little confused," John said. "Why would the King think to foist her on you and not his councilmen? Surely she should be their problem, not yours?"

"The King is nothing if not subtle," replied Monseigneur. "To pass this on for parliament to decide would be to acknowledge it as an international incident. That would have been a small victory for the Woman. But do not let this little subterfuge mislead you into thinking my brother is soft. He means to teach this woman a lesson, and he believes I will do a more thorough job than any courtier in the realm. He has decided to throw her to the wolves, and I shall enjoy this little game of annihilation."

John said nothing upon hearing this, merely tucked his chin down as he stared at Monseigneur a little reproachfully.

"What?" demanded Monseigneur, catching John's frown. "Don't say you actually feel sorry for her."

"No, it's just…" John trailed off. Then: "Well, yes, I do. In a way. Nobody can listen to that kind of story and not feel for her. Besides, annihilation is too strong a word, wouldn't you say? After all, she's a lady, and a highly born one at that—"

"Don't let her sex get in the way of an issue that is actually quite simple, John," said Monseigneur, his tone clear and incisive as a shard of ice. "She is a person with a ruthless talent for embarking on some astounding feats of social mountaineering and who has made it quite plain that she is a danger to Gaaldinian interests."

John sighed gently in resignation. Seeing how it may be the reason behind his vehemence, perhaps it would not do to ask Monseigneur what he thought or felt about being shunted aside by this daring, uppity woman as she proceeded with her outrageously ambitious scheme of getting the King of Gaaldine to marry her. Not that Monseigneur felt anything but contempt for the woman. That much was clear to John, at least. He refused to dwell on his feeling of relief and reassurance at the thought.

"Well then, I see you've made up your mind," John finally murmured. "I don't suppose anything I say will help you change it."

Monseigneur stared at him from across his work table. "You need not worry about things that are beyond you, John," he said. "Rather, focus on the tasks given to you. Time is not on our side, and we have yet to test the antidote. And then there's the oil."

Monseigneur's gaze changed, turned palpable as a caress even as it continued to bore into John. "We have only a fortnight left before I leave," he said, voice deepening ever so slightly, "and it usually takes my mother's people that amount of time to produce her rose oil. I would suggest you hurry up with yours."

John swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat. "There are faster ways to turn out a good medicinal oil," was all he could think to say.

"Just make sure it's also palatable," said Monseigneur before he turned his attention back to his experiments, leaving John slack-mouthed as he realized the full import of Monseigneur's words.

* * *

It took John a while to get it done.

The easiest way to make medicinal oil was to add in whatever ingredient one needed and let it sit in the jar of oil, under the sun, for at least two weeks. But they didn't have time for that, so John would have to create his medicinal oil by heating its components. It would take at least an entire afternoon.

At first, his other chores kept him from working on it immediately. There were always other things to take care of first: other people's illnesses to look into, other people's medicines to make. Even for a royal household as small as Monseigneur's (his people numbered less than a hundred), there was always somebody who needed John's attention, something that took him away from this particular chore. And knowing what it was going to be used for, John could not bring himself to ask Mike to help make it for him.

It was only a day or two later, when John realized that Monseigneur was waiting for it before he would consent to do anything with John in bed, that John finally settled down to make the oil.

Of all the things that John ought to have known about Monseigneur, this must surely be the first and foremost: it was never a good thing to keep Monseigneur waiting. For anything.

"You still don't have it, then," said Monseigneur flatly just as they prepared for bed one night.

John cleared his throat and after an uncomfortable pause, said, "We…we need to talk."

Monseigneur's tone was lethargically bored as he asked, "Talk about what?"

_You know what_, John wanted to say crossly.

It.

The thing they were about to engage in. The S-word. The act universally condemned as immoral, sinful; the very same one that had condemned the inhabitants of two notorious biblical towns to fire and brimstone from a wrathful God. Gaaldinian society might be far more permissive than its Angrian counterpart, but surely, even Gaaldinians would think to draw the line here.

But may God have mercy on his soul, this was not the problem plaguing John; not exactly, anyway. No matter what his upbringing would lead him to believe, no matter how much he himself might think it wrong or sinful, he wanted it with this man as he had never wanted it with anyone else; but they needed to discuss the particulars. Because even though he'd already informed Monseigneur of his preference, it did not look as though Monseigneur was the type of man who would quietly give in and let John have his way with him.

Or would he?

All this went through John's mind in less than a second, but Monseigneur seemed to have read his thoughts in his eyes and, as always, caught the gist of the problem.

"You need not worry about any ideas I might entertain about forcing myself on you," drawled Monseigneur. "I won't have to; at the end of this particular exercise, it is more likely that I'll have you begging for it. Begging for me."

John swallowed hard as Monseigneur's words licked through him like tongues of flame, stoking the need that lay like smoldering embers in his loins.

"Really? You'll have me begging?" said John, brows raised, trying desperately for nonchalance. It was the best that he could do, considering that he was very nearly at a loss for words.

"You will enjoy it, John," promised Monseigneur, his voice like black silk. "I will be sure to make you love it."

Damn it, how had the man come up so close? John had not really noticed Monseigneur's gradual advance, but he was here now, standing just in front of John, head bent forward so that he would only need to tilt it ever so slightly for a kiss. He was so close, a hair's breadth away from touching John, but not quite.

"It's going to feel so good," murmured Monseigneur, lips a scant inch away from John's as he gazed down at him, "that I will have you screaming for more."

John was beyond words now, not quite in control of his breathing, much less his thoughts, as his gaze fixed itself upon that mouth with its perfect cupid's bow upper lip and a tender, generous lower lip that hovered so near and yet was tantalizingly just out of John's reach.

John would have wanted to capture that mouth with his, but he was afraid Monseigneur— with his ability to elevate the act of torture into an exquisite art form— might withhold it from him.

So John held his breath and waited. _Any moment now…_

But true to John's suspicions, Monseigneur had other plans. All of a sudden, his voice changed, grew matter-of-fact as he stepped away and said quite regretfully, "But without the oil everything is pure conjecture. What's the point of dwelling over something that we can't actually engage in right now? We will resume this conversation once you're able to deliver the goods. For now, I see your divan beckons you. Good night, John."

_Fuck him,_ thought John as he remembered that scene from the previous night with a shake of his head and a rueful smile. Fuck him if he knew all too well how to push John's buttons. Fuck him if the man could oh, so skillfully whet John's appetite with a few choice words and then leave him hanging.

And fuck him if he, John, did not fall for it hook, line and sinker. He would be lying if he said he did not want Monseigneur _now._

So now here he was, inside Mike's little workroom just behind the glass house where Mike cooked his medicines. Letting out a deep, shaky sigh to calm himself, John turned his attention back to the bowl of almonds he was crushing before him with a mortar and pestle.

He had just placed the small pot containing the mixture of sallet oil and almond paste over the hearth when the Lady Molly came in, dragging Billy by the wrist.

"He's ill and he doesn't even want you to know about it," said Molly plaintively, coming straight to the point.

"It's just a little fever," protested Billy, the pink flush on his cheeks darkening to a deep wine red. "It's nothing, really."

"It could be nothing, it could be something," John replied. "How long has it been going on?"

"Just a few hours," replied Billy reluctantly as he slumped tiredly into a chair beside John.

"Hmm. Well, Molly was right to bring you in," said John, placing a hand on Billy's forehead to feel his temperature. "We wouldn't want you to be sick just when you're about to leave for Glasstown with Monseigneur."

Billy looked discomfited. Molly said, in a tone filled with _I told you so_, "I'll be in the glass house. I need to ask Mike for some of that powder he made for Lady Hudson the other day. Then I'm coming back for you. Don't think about leaving without me."

Billy seemed to deflate the moment they were alone.

"It's no good, John, sir," he said, anguished. "Do you see how she regards me? I'm no more than a brother to her. A _younger _brother."

John sighed. Indeed, the road had not been smooth ever since he had decided to delve into the youth's attachment to the Lady Molly, obvious to everyone except the lady herself.

Upon their return to the Lair, John took pity when he saw the boy reduced to his usual state of blushing incoherence after Molly had favored him with a few words of welcome. He pulled Billy aside and said, "So. When are you going to tell her something of your feelings?"

It took Billy a while to recover from his surprise, but he finally managed to pull enough words together to inquire very shyly, "Has she...has she said anything to you about me?"

"No," John admitted. "But that doesn't mean she doesn't feel anything for you. You will have to be the one to coax the words and the feelings out from her."

For a moment, he feared he had been a little too forward with his suggestion. If Billy were to stick to his strict upbringing as a knight-in-training, he would insist on the chivalric ideal of worshipping his lady love from afar.

Instead, he said resignedly, "I know she does not care for me. She already has someone else in her heart— someone far worthier of her regard and affections. She is blameless in her choice. She doesn't even see me."

And that was what John was afraid of. That "someone" was the reason why he had started this entire campaign— to steer Molly away from what was sure to be inevitable heartbreak. Monseigneur did not care for hearts so freely given to him; he wanted them plundered—surrendered to him after he'd successfully laid siege on their hapless owners.

So John replied, "She sees you. She just doesn't know what's going on with you. You'll have to _show_ her."

And now this.

John looked at Billy as he drooped in his chair like a wilted flower and said, "Well, of course she's going to try to be an older sister to you if you haven't more sense than she does. Why didn't you tell me you're not feeling well?"

Billy shook his head obstinately. "It's really nothing, sir. It will pass."

John nodded. "I will mix you a tonic, and then I want you to lie down for the rest of the afternoon. Don't worry about your chores. I will tell Mon—"

_"No."_

John stared at Billy, at the vehemence of that single uttered word. After a moment, Billy continued, voice quietly beseeching, "Please don't tell him."

Seeing the boy's genuine distress, John let the matter drop; for now.

"The tonic. Then bed," he said.

* * *

"The antidote is amazing, John," said Monseigneur as he paced about the bedchamber that night. "Poisoned mushrooms, deadly nightshade, hemlock, even wolfsbane— everything just clears away the moment the antidote is introduced."

John watched him and said nothing, merely giving a noncommittal grunt. He could feel his heart rate picking up as he gripped the vial of fresh oil in one hand, partially hidden away from view by his nightshirt.

"Of course, we will need to try it on live subjects," continued Monseigneur, oblivious as John gingerly made his way over to stand beside the bed. "I will need Eustace to—"

The flow of words from Monseigneur's mouth came to an abrupt end when John tossed the slender vial of oil onto the middle of the bed, with its pristine, snow-white sheets.

There was absolute silence as time slowly trickled away, moment by moment, while Monseigneur gazed at the delicate glass vial in front of him in deep thought and John stared at Monseigneur's shuttered features, his heart slamming wildly away in his chest.

"I-It's…" John stuttered as he watched Monseigneur finally stretch out a steady, unhurried hand towards the bottle. "It's umm…you said…and I—"

John's mouth suddenly seemed too dry for speech and he thought it best to stop talking altogether. He cleared his throat roughly, gulping the rest of his words down before he made a complete and obviously nervous fool of himself.

"Almond," remarked Monseigneur softly, having uncorked the bottle and tipped some of its contents onto the back of his hand. This he lifted to his nose as he sniffed delicately at the oil.

John swallowed. "You…you said something about making it palatable," he said, voice so faint that it was almost a whisper.

"Indeed I did," agreed Monseigneur, surveying John with a sly smile. "What are you waiting for, then? Lie down, John, and let's see just how good you've made this oil to be."

John took in a huge breath and let it out slowly. "Right," he said. "About that..."

"What is it this time?" Monseigneur asked, the first tones of impatience etching into his voice at last— impatience echoed in his movements as he started to undress before John.

John was finding it increasingly difficult to focus as Monseigneur gradually bared himself to John's scrutiny without even so much as batting an eyelash, but he pressed on valiantly, "Yes, well, things are not as clear as I'd want them to be in certain—"

John stopped abruptly as Monseigneur reached out a hand to start unbuttoning John's nightshirt.

Monseigneur's smirk widened, voice pitched so low it was almost a purr. "You were saying?"

John swallowed hard. "Certain areas," he finished lamely.

"You won't need this," murmured Monseigneur as he peeled the nightshirt off John. "Now, to bed with you."

"Sherlock—"

Monseigneur cut off John's protest as he said softly, "Do you trust me, John?"

Did he? He found himself giving Monseigneur a brief nod even as his mind wrestled with the question.

"On the bed. Now."

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes heavenward and quietly got into bed.

"Turn over."

_Oh God._

"Sherlock—"

"John." Monseigneur leveled him a look: _Obey me._

John let out a nervous huff and did as he was told, turning so that he was lying on his stomach. Lord, the feel of the crisp sheets beneath him, against his stirring cock. The friction was delicious. It was all he could do not to rub himself against the sheets. He turned his head to the side, away from Monseigneur, breath hitching as he felt the mattress dip, taking in Monseigneur's weight.

Then, for a while: nothing. John resisted the urge to bring his burning face up and look at Monseigneur. He held his breath, body tense, waiting, wondering: _what's wrong…? Why—_

"Ah!"

The cool trickle of smooth oil, poured onto the middle of his back, took him by surprise. Immediately, he felt Monseigneur's hand, with flat palm and five adept fingers, gliding over him, stroking the oil into his skin.

"Why so tense, John?" murmured Monseigneur as his other hand joined in on his languid ministrations. "It's just a massage."

It took some effort for John to snort out a laugh. He would have wanted to say something witty or caustic, but his thoughts were rapidly deserting him. Instead, he heard himself muttering, "Ohh. That's good. Christ, that's good."

"John." Monseigneur's voice was a low ripple of sound— hushed, reverent. "Marvelous John."

John's eyes flitted closed as he took in the warm, subtle smell of the oil that was the fruit of his labors for an entire afternoon. He thought about telling Monseigneur that he ought to be the one massaging him, but his thoughts were dim and half-formed, flitting inconsequentially in his head as his body took over, responding instinctively to Monseigneur's hypnotic touch.

Gradually, he started to relax beneath Monseigneur's skilled hands that knew how to squeeze and knead and stroke. He let Monseigneur explore for a while, willing his flesh to go pliant underneath his touch, until Monseigneur's hands grew bolder, until they glided down to cup the globes of John's arse.

John tensed immediately, and he would have made to rise if Monseigneur had not bent down to kiss him low on his sacrum.

"Sherlock, no—" John's voice held a thin, sharp edge of panic.

"Hush." Monseigneur's lips moved against John's oil-slicked skin even as his hands started to knead the firm flesh of John's buttocks.

John gave an audible gulp, clenching fistfuls of the sheets as he felt Monseigneur's open-mouthed kisses trailing dangerously farther down.

He could do this.

Yes, he could. He was a soldier; he'd faced down burly opponents almost twice his size, opponents who would have had no compunction in driving their sharp swords into him. What was Monseigneur's sensual invasion of his body compared to that?

He just needed to relax and take whatever Monseigneur was willing to give him.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt himself start to tremble, to shake his head from side to side as he felt Monseigneur gently parting his firm flesh, felt his breath warm and moist on the newly exposed crevice.

Oh God_, no._

He couldn't submit to this.

In a flash, John was up and pulling away from Monseigneur's grasp. "I'm…I'm sorry," he gasped. "I _can't."_

Surprisingly enough, Monseigneur did not attempt to restrain him. He stayed where he was, kneeling in front of John, shoulders tense and hunched, looking as though he might launch himself at John any moment, or throw him off his bed. He did neither. Instead, he devoured John with a silent, hungry look.

_Well fuck_, thought John, completely mortified. Now he'd disappointed him, and they hadn't even begun yet.

"You promised you wouldn't force yourself," he whispered.

"So I did," said Monseigneur at last.

"I don't want you to stop," said John hurriedly, a little wildly, words tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to rein in the panic that had been set loose in his mind like a weasel in a chicken coop. "It's just…this is just too much, too soon, and I—"

"John." Monseigneur's voice broke into his verbal hemorrhage.

John swallowed his words as he forced himself to look at Monseigneur. "Yeah?"

"Shut up," said Monseigneur darkly as he leaned in to take John's mouth with his own in a wet, molten caress.

John gave a heavy sigh of relief as he let Monseigneur take possession of his mouth. This. Yes, this. This was something he could work with, something with which he was familiar. So was the feeling of Monseigneur's body draping over his.

There were no more protests as Monseigneur kissed his way down the arch of John's throat, lingering to bathe his nipples with saliva before he sat up to pour more oil on John's chest.

"Good?" breathed Monseigneur.

His voice was close to failing him, so John merely bit his lip and nodded.

"I want you to have faith in me, John," whispered Monseigneur as he bent down to trail his lips along the same path his hands had just taken, avoiding John's arousal with ruthless discipline. "You realize you can trust me completely, don't you? _Don't you?"_

Wordlessly, John nodded. He was not sure if he really meant it, but at this point, John was ready to agree with Monseigneur on everything save the act he had in mind.

"We shall see. I shall bring you to the test soon. But right now…" Monseigneur sat back, spreading John's legs apart as he bent to kiss the inside of one muscular, quivering thigh. "Tell me what you want, John."

A gusty exhalation that was almost a moan, and John said in a voice that was not quite his own, "I want to be inside you. Let me fuck you, Sherlock."

He stopped just short of saying _please,_ but Monseigneur smiled all the same at his tone, desperate and breathy with need, already almost begging.

"My John certainly has a way with words," intoned Monseigneur as he lifted the vial of almond oil, now reduced to nearly half, and tipped a generous helping onto John's shaft, achingly erect and flushed with arousal.

John could not help but toss his head back, hissing in a breath of delight as Monseigneur slicked the oil onto his cock, the motion of his fingers efficient and precise. Monseigneur poured a dollop more onto his fingers and reached behind to prepare himself. He made to stop John from rising and taking him in his arms, and a _frisson_ went through John as he suddenly realized that Monseigneur meant to ride him.

"Ready," whispered Monseigneur as he moved to straddle John, muscular legs gripping John's hips on either side securely as he took John in hand and guided himself slowly down over John's straining erection.

A wave of deep, sensual pleasure rippled through John as he felt Monseigneur's body accepting him inch by slow, delicious inch; the slick, warm tightness gradually encasing his shaft was incredible. John found his hands tightening on the firm flesh of Monseigneur's hips. Still, Monseigneur continued to take him in, sinking down, down until John was buried within his warm, waiting body to the hilt. Then and only then did he stop moving.

Panting breathlessly, John blinked up at Monseigneur and found him to be far from unaffected: a delicate blush colored Monseigneur's chest, his neck and his masked face as John felt that long, lean body trembling ever so minutely against his, all around him.

"John…" Monseigneur's voice was no longer cool and composed. The tortured bliss of a man impaled was in those deep, guttural tones. His breathing was not quite steady. "…You're inside me…oh, John."

John licked his lips, his voice edged with urgency as he whispered, "Can I move?"

Monseigneur shook his head: _Not yet…_

"Sherlock…" breathed John, feeling Monseigneur clench his inner muscles around him as he settled more fully into position. "God, so beautiful…_fuck—!"_

John drew in a startled breath as Monseigneur started a small, experimental, grinding motion with his hips, like the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tides just outside the window of the tower overlooking the sea.

"Do you feel that?" Monseigneur's voice was soft as a lullaby.

"Yes. God, so good."

The rhythm gradually picked up, turned into a gentle, rocking movement while Monseigneur's body gradually acclimated to his lover's flesh as it pierced him. Placing both hands on John's chest, Monseigneur leaned down to tease John's slightly open mouth with his.

"Now," he whispered against John's lips. "Now, John."

John needed no further encouragement; he gripped Sherlock by his hips and thrust up savagely.

They quickly established a rhythm, fast and hard, full of delicious unexpected pauses that merely brought their shared need into sharper focus. Monseigneur took John's hand to his cock, encasing himself in John's solid grip even as he took John's flesh deep inside him, utterly without mercy to himself or his lover.

The pleasure intensified as Monseigneur's initial hesitation quickly dispelled and he came to riding John with the same masterful assurance as he would ride the Beast.

"Beautiful, so goddamn beautiful," John muttered, eyes locked onto Monseigneur's own even as his lips curled back in a feral snarl. And it was then that John first saw it— a clear, steady light behind Monseigneur's gaze even as it blazed blue and hot like hellfire. But what it meant was beyond John for the moment; he could no longer make sense of anything other than the savage urgency building between them, swiftly escalating until it was beyond their control.

Until the moment was suddenly upon them.

"_John!"_ Monseigneur shouted as he threw his head back, his body arching in unconscious, splendid grace as he strained over John.

John felt the warm splatter of his lover's semen on his chest, felt his body's rhythm shatter at Monseigneur's release— the spasms, everywhere: deep within his lover's body, against his entire length, within himself, bursting forth in a blinding rush of pure sensation so that he never even remembered shouting as he came, and came, and came.

John recovered soon enough to find Monseigneur's hand still clamped loosely over his mouth.

"I told you I'd make you scream," said Monseigneur, his voice a deep, exhausted rumble as he took his hand away and settled down in John's arms.

"It was one of those moments," conceded John. "You've not been able to make me beg though."

A tilt of Monseigneur's lips as he replied, "I will. Soon."

There was a quiet, contented pause.

"Although you were right," sighed John. "I did enjoy it."

"Just admit it: you loved it," said Monseigneur.

"But it's a sin," said John, his gaze turning grave as it met Monseigneur's unrepentant eyes. "That's wicked, forbidden sex right there."

"My dear John," said Monseigneur, trying his best for a nonchalant drawl. "The unique and supreme pleasure of love is the certainty that one is doing evil."

John stared at Monseigneur for a moment. _Is that what this is?_ He wanted to ask. _Is this love?_

Try as he might, he could not bring himself to say his thoughts out loud for fear that Monseigneur might deny it and take it all back. Suddenly, reluctantly, he remembered that look in Monseigneur's eyes once again just when he had been about to come— that tiny gleam of clarity that belied the state of a man on the edge of mindless orgasm.

Sin or not, this— what they had right now— was so new, so fragile, that John was afraid of even closing his fingers around it lest it should break and crumble into pieces in his hand. He wanted to hold onto it a bit longer before subjecting it to any kind of inspection.

Monseigneur's words broke into his thoughts.

"Does it bother you?" Monseigneur was saying, casting John a searching glance.

After a moment, John shook his head. _No._

He was starting to mean it too, and that was the most frightening thing of all.

Monseigneur gazed at John for a moment longer, his thoughts running along quite different lines from those of his lover.

His task with John was almost done. He'd very nearly tamed his Highlander— John was almost entirely his. Just a day or two more, and he'd have John's heart on a platter if he so wished. His conquest was so very nearly complete; and not a moment too soon.

Just a day or two more, and John would let him into his body, into very his soul.

That, Monseigneur would later realize, was the first mistake he'd ever made concerning John. And no matter how much he turned this incident over in his mind in hindsight, he was left with the conclusion that there had been no way to anticipate its near-disastrous consequences.

But all of that lay in the future.

For now, Monseigneur glided two fingers down John's wet, glistening chest before lifting them to John's lips to anoint him with oil and his desire.

"My powerful warrior," Monseigneur said.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: There are two methods of making medicinal oil: the cold infusion method which is quite easy but involves a long waiting period as described above, or the hot-infusion method employed by John, which takes just a few hours but would involve more work, as care must be exercised to prevent the oil (sallet oil which was probably olive oil during Medieval times) from burning while it is being gently heated in a water bath with the herbs and other materials used. There is an excellent webpage where we can read more on how to make Medieval style scented oils and waters. (article by Jadwiga Zajaczkowa)

I will not be able to accurately reflect the true state of religious morality as it existed during Medieval times in this story. However, some description of Medieval views on faith and sin would be necessary as we focus on the influence of religion and the almighty (and very political) Church on people's lives during that time.

**Sodomy**, the S-word, that sin of all sins, has a very long history that stretches to biblical times. Today, it's used to pertain more specifically to anal sex, but in olden times, it was an umbrella term that covered a wide range of sexual activities that "deviated" from normal penile-vaginal intercourse (e.g. anal, oral sex, bestiality, etc.), and various societies and religions have dealt with it in various ways, mostly in overwhelmingly negative terms because of its perceived departure from the "natural order" of things.

During Medieval times, when the only Church-sanctioned sexual position was the missionary one and sexual intercourse was riddled with a minefield of rules and swathed in layer after layer of taboo (i.e. to be performed strictly for procreational purposes without much pleasure involved), the act of sodomy, of "wicked and forbidden sex", carried extremely harsh punishments which will be discussed in the story in future chapters. I have yet to decide just how faithfully I would want to replicate Medieval mores here, but definitely, I will need to veer off a bit from the actual state and make Gaaldinian society and culture more permissive and morally flexible, if we are to have the fun and angst that I have in mind for future chapters (and I promise there will be lots of those in store).

The two notorious biblical towns mentioned in this chapter are, of course, **Sodom and Gomorrah**, although they were not the only towns destroyed for their wickedness. In Abrahamic traditions, Sodom and Gomorrah have become synonymous with impenitent sin, and their fall with a proverbial manifestation of God's wrath. (Source: Wikipedia)


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